


Oliver

by Herk



Series: The Life and Love of Mycroft Holmes [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: At least EinAdler claims it is, Complete, Established Relationship, Greg deals pretty well all things considered, M/M, Maybe it's more than just a tiny bit of case, Mycroft is caught off-balance, THE ex turning up, a tiny bit of case happening, lots of flashbacks, painful fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herk/pseuds/Herk
Summary: Lestrade has had a life before Mycroft: a wife, boyfriends, girlfriends,  you name it. He is a grown man after all. But so is Mycroft...How will Gregory and My deal when suddenly THE ex-friend pops up in London and in relation to a case nonetheless?(Features Sherlock, Anthea, John, and Sally Donovan in supporting roles)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as ever to the wonderful Dimar for beta-ing whenever I pester her about it. This one took two attempts to finish but finally it's done. I will post updates daily until it's done, so I hope you'll enjoy the ride)

Mycroft Holmes entered NSY. There were certain files that he needed to drop off. Well not specifically him - but ever since a certain DI and he had taken their relationship to the next level, the British Government found reasons to drop by the Yard if his schedule allowed for it. So now he made his way up to the right floor, the file under his arm and a cup of real coffee in his hand.

 

“Myc?”

 

He stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn’t heard that particular voice in over two decades. Turning around he saw an all too familiar face under a crop of still full, blonde hair. The man had aged well. Life had been good to him if the obvious fitness, well-fitting, expensive clothes, and laughter lines were any indication. The only distracting factor was Sally Donovan currently holding his arm.

 

“Oliver?”

*

_Mycroft started university relatively late. He was already seventeen when he enrolled. This made him about a year younger than most everyone else. A year was the limit Mycroft had deemed acceptable. Anything more would have marked him an outsider - a freak - right away. Most of his serious studies would be done on his own anyway. Uni was a place to establish contacts and develop his social abilities among peers. Unlike languages or numbers, social interactions didn’t come naturally to Mycroft and his first few attempts ended predictably in disaster. But he was willing to invest the time and effort - unlike his little brother he was willing to learn society’s rules and live by them as much as necessary._

__

 

_His official schedule was as light as he could get away with, which left Mycroft a lot of time to visit higher year seminars or lectures that piqued his interest._

 

_He first lay eyes on Oliver in a seminar about Bentham. The second year blonde caught his attention the moment he entered the room. Mycroft was immediately convinced that he had never seen anyone more beautiful. He didn’t remember a thing about that day’s discussion but nevertheless he didn’t consider his time wasted._

 

_Oliver McIntyre studied English literature but similar to Mycroft he made sure to visit quite a few extracurricular events and activities such as the philosophy seminar. McIntyre was also a member of the rowing team - a sport he enjoyed thoroughly even if he would never be one of the school’s top athletes._

 

_Mycroft knew that Oliver was gay by the end of their first shared seminar. He took a whole week to make absolutely sure that Oliver actually knew that he was homosexual and wasn’t living in denial._

 

_Now he just needed a way to approach him._

 

_Mycroft started to study Oliver and his habits the same way Sherlock conducted his experiments at home: with patience, care, and an incredible attention to detail. He began to frequent the same off-campus locations Oliver’s friends visited and he managed to stay quite inconspicuous. Looking back later, Mycroft recognized that this had been the foundation for his short but very successful undercover career. He could never muster the same level of motivation for doing the legwork for any of his professional appointments though._

 

_If McIntyre had proved himself to be a fool or a rude bully, Mycroft would have been able to shake off his obsession. But at every opportunity Oliver behaved perfectly polite and nice, not only to his friends but to random people like waitresses or clerks. He seldom spoke in the seminar but when he did his contributions were well thought out. Mycroft was convinced that he had found the closest thing a human being could be to perfection before he had even turned eighteen._

 

_Objectively Oliver McIntyre was indeed a nice young man but most people wouldn’t have looked at him twice. His face was more interesting than beautiful in the classical sense. People liked him for his quiet yet open and friendly personality. He got along with practically everybody. From Mycroft’s perspective that was its own kind of genius and one completely foreign to his own._

*

Oliver McIntyre was a successful author of supernatural crime fiction. Being almost fifty now, success had come relatively late in life. He had never minded though as long as he did something he loved. When he’d started the book series about Wolfgang Hart - a werewolf detective in contemporary Liverpool - fame had practically come over night. The noir atmosphere, the snark, and an ensemble of supernatural supporting characters hit a chord with the - mostly young - readership. Sally had read a couple of the novels and had thoroughly enjoyed them. But that didn’t mean she would cut McIntyre any slack.

 

“Come on now.”

 

The man didn’t give an inch.

 

“A moment please, Sergeant.” He turned towards Holmes the elder. “What are you doing here, Myc?”

 

Holmes blinked. “I was just dropping off some files.”

 

“So you stuck with that government job? Good for you.”

 

And there it was again, that absolutely gorgeous and totally genuine smile. Twenty odd years and Mycroft was as helpless as he’d been the very first time he’d seen it. He turned towards the woman holding Oliver’s arm.

 

“DS Donovan, why is Mr. McIntyre here?” His voice was perfectly polite if a bit breathless to his own ears.

 

Sally frowned. She never knew how to deal with him. He was the ‘freak’s’ brother, but he was also a man in a position of power and he was her boss's live-in boyfriend.

 

“He’s here in connection to the Moorcomp murders, Mr. Holmes”

 

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to frown. “Surely not as a suspect?”

 

Donovan’s facial expression told him differently. He was just about to protest, when another voice chimed in.

 

“More like a consultant - Hello, Mycroft.”

 

Hearing Gregory’s voice, Mycroft felt heat crawling up his neck. Luckily no one seemed to notice as the DI turned towards the author. “Mr. McIntyre, glad to see you came - DI Lestrade.” He offered his hand.

 

Oliver took it. “Your DS gave the distinct impression that I didn’t have much choice in the matter, to be honest.” Still he was definitely more amused than angry.

 

“We always have a choice.” Mycroft said quietly. Lestrade was surprised to see him weigh in at all.

 

“How very existentialist of you, Myc.”

 

Greg turned from McIntyre to the elder Holmes, his eyebrow raised in question.

 

“You know I always appreciated Sartre, Oliver.” The government official didn’t take his eyes of Greg’s ‘consultant’.

 

“Donovan, why don’t you lead Mr. McIntyre into room 3? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

 

Sally nodded. “Of course.”

 

Before she could lead him away, the author had pulled out his card and put it into Mycroft Holmes’ hand. “I’m in London for a couple of weeks - call me.” Then he followed the DS without waiting for an answer.

 

Lestrade took Mycroft’s arm and gently lead him into his office. The other man still seemed dazzled by the accidental run-in. Once he’d closed the office door, Greg turned towards his lover. 

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Mycroft blinked as if he suddenly remembered where he was. “I had to drop off some files.” He dropped the papers on the DI’s desk. “And I brought you some coffee.” He offered the cup to the policeman with a sheepish smile. 

 

Greg took it and placed it on the desk. “And what was that all about?”

 

“I was a bit taken aback. I didn’t expect to run into Oliver at your work of all places.”

 

“I didn’t know you knew any semi-famous authors.”

 

“Is he?” Mycroft naturally had no idea. He didn’t care about bestseller lists or popular fiction in general.

 

Greg had to grin at his partner’s cluelessness. “Sure. Oliver McIntyre sells… wait… Don’t tell me he is _that_ Oliver.”

 

Mycroft managed a small smile. “He used to write poetry.” 

 

Greg leaned back against his desk. “Blimey - my boyfriend used to shag a suspect.”

 

Mycroft frowned. “Didn’t you say, he wasn’t a suspect?”

 

“Well, it’s far more probable that the murders are the work of a deranged fan. But some evidence does point his way. We’re not ruling anything out at the moment.”

 

“Oliver wouldn’t murder anyone.”

 

“How long has it been since you last saw him?” Seeing the protest forming, Greg quickly added: “Look I’m not saying he would. Just - twenty years is a long time. And people change.”

 

He was sounding perfectly calm and reasonable and for a tiny moment, Mycroft hated him for it.

 

“Well then get on with your job and I’ll get on with mine.” The government official left, giving the DI no chance to say anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

_Mycroft made his move halfway through the first semester. He was drinking a cup of tea while McIntyre and three of his regular peers were happily discussing everything and nothing at a close-by table._

 

_Derek declared: “I think I’ll have another pint.”_

 

_Mycroft curled his lips in slight distaste. It was too early in the day for alcohol._

 

_Derek began to giggle. “I think, therefore I am.”_

 

_“Actually that is a bad translation.” Mycroft commented drily from his place._

 

_Derek’s best mate James immediately turned around. “Piss off fresh meat. No one wants to hear your first year jabbering.”_

 

_Peter - the third member of their little round - laughed. “Yeah. You need at least a whole year under your belt before you can speak proper English - let alone Latin. You can’t even translate ‘cogito ergo sum’.”_

 

_“Twat.” Derek added for good measure._

 

_“Don’t be such an ass.” Oliver interrupted. He knew fully well that Mycroft’s Latin was more than on par. “What do you mean by bad translation?”_

 

_“Assuming your friend meant to quote Descartes, a more accurate interpretation would be ‘I doubt, therefore I am’ or ‘I question, therefore I am’. The text very clearly refers to _critical_ thinking.”_

 

_“So you read Descartes - big deal.”_

 

_“I found the discours de la methode an entertaining read even if the man had a more significant impact on mathematics in my opinion.”_

 

_Derek and James clearly hated him at that moment for his arrogant tone and superior attitude. They turned their backs demonstratively on him. Peter rose an eyebrow but shrugged it off. He clearly didn’t care either way. Oliver on the other hand was hooked. He moved over to Mycroft’s table and within moments they were deeply engaged in a discussion about philosophers._

 

_It was the first time they exchanged anything more significant than a ‘good morning’ and it was glorious. Oliver hung on his every word never once dismissing Mycroft’s opinion or conclusions. Being the natural diplomat that he was Oliver did include his friends in the discussion and half an hour later all five of them were invested in the conversation. Derek still tried to prove Mycroft wrong at every turn but only succeeded in giving Holmes more opportunities to show off his argumentative brilliance._

*

Greg entered the interview room. “Sorry for the wait, Mr. McIntyre.” With Sally there he didn’t dare to add something about the delay being work-related. She would have scoffed at the lie.

 

“Not at all, DI Lestrade. Your DS Donovan kept me company.”

 

Sally actually went to the trouble of answering McIntyre’s smile with one of her own. 

 

Greg sat down opposite of McIntyre. “A couple found dead in their living room, the whole room in ruins because apparently a fight occurred. Only the couple shows little to no evidence of having fought, only minimal evidence of them trying to defend themselves. Their necks are tattered and torn, blood everywhere. The room was obviously trashed by the attacker after they were killed. There are hairs found, short, grey - apparently a dog’s. Only the couple didn’t own any pets. Sounds familiar?”

 

McIntyre smiled. “Of course the Moorcock murders - Wolfgang Hart’s first case. He had to track down the rogue werewolf killer to protect himself and the rest of the supernatural community from being found out.” Suddenly his smile vanished. “You’re not telling me…”

 

Lestrade put two photographs on the table between them. “Patrick Moorcomp, 48 and his wife Anna, 49. Not exactly the same but I guess the killer couldn’t find a perfect fitting match.”

 

The author had gone very pale. “That’s terrible. Those poor people…”

 

“And I highly doubt that our killer is of the shape changing variety.”

 

“Have you talked with anyone about this? I mean outside of the Yard obviously.”

 

Greg was confused by that question. “No, we haven’t. We want to avoid a press shit storm as long as possible..”

 

McIntyre nodded. “Don’t talk to my agent - or to my publisher. I’m not sure that they wouldn’t try to use this to gain publicity.”

 

The author sounded honestly disgusted at the thought and Lestrade gained a certain respect for the man. “If it had just been the Moorcomps we might not have brought you in, but three nights later we had a jogger turn up dead in Burgess park, his blood soaking the roots of…”

 

“An oak?”

 

“A beech actually. Either the killer isn’t all that great on botany or he simply couldn’t find an oak there. I was told that one resembled one of your books as well.”

 

McIntyre had grown pale. “An agent of Titania consecrating the new artificial meadows and groves in the middle of London. It’s in the second book.”

 

“How many books does the series have so far?”

 

“Thirteen published ones…” McIntyre’s voice was barely above a whisper.

 

“Donovan will you fetch us some coffee? I think Mr: McIntyre and I will have quite a bit to talk about.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft sat in a heavy arm chair in the Diogenes staring at the card in his hands. He had come here right after his last appointment for the day had been dealt with. Anthea had raised a questioning eyebrow as he left but he hadn’t cared to explain himself to her. Sometimes she took the P in PA too serious for his liking already. He had arrived over two hours earlier and had spent all that time in the common room - one of the most private places available in London. No one would dare utter a word or even look at him directly. Mycroft took another small sip of the whiskey the staff had provided him with a while earlier. The card in his hand was tasteful and minimalistic. It didn’t feature a name and only a number. The government official came to the conclusion that Oliver probably had ‘official’ cards featuring the number of his agent with his name and business contact information. This was a private mobile number not featuring a name to avoid problems if someone lost the card by accident. No matter how long he studied it, the card refused to tell him more than it had at the very first glance.

 

Mycroft wondered what he should do.

*

_By the end of the semester Mycroft had become a permanent part of Oliver’s clique. No one besides McIntyre seemed to actually like him all that much but all were ready to accept him. He didn’t draw more than his share of teasing - less than most actually and none of it mean-spirited. Compared to school the change was incredible._

__

 

_If he’d considered this nothing but a social experiment, it would have counted as a full success._

 

_But Mycroft had higher aspirations._

 

_The semester break put his plans on a temporary halt, but he knew that some things were worth waiting for._

 

_Nevertheless he was positively giddy when the new semester was about to start. Sherlock not only noted his eagerness to return to uni but took it as a personal insult. Mycroft did the best he could to smooth over the ruffled feathers, but his little brother still pouted when he left for his train._

 

_Two weeks into the new semester, McIntyre shared a special place with him. He had discovered a way up the roof of his dormitory that wasn’t locked. Mycroft usually wasn’t one to break the rules but for Oliver he was willing to be a lot more adventurous. And he had to agree - the view of the night sky was stunning from up here._

 

_“Have you shown this place to many others?”_

 

_“Not really. It’s a place for thinking and quiet contemplation and most of the guys would spoil that. You are different.” Oliver leaned back staring at the stars above them, obviously content staying quiet._

 

_Mycroft sat down next to him, stealing glances at the other boy. Calling him ‘different’ was probably the understatement of the century. But for Oliver ‘different’ was a compliment; a reason to share things with him, not to dislike or shun him. Oliver McIntyre felt comfortable around Mycroft and that enabled him to relax as well._

 

_He waited for a while just enjoying the cool night air and companionable silence. He had waited for just the right moment and tonight was the night he decided._

 

_“Oliver?”_

 

_“Mmmh?”_

 

_“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.”_

 

_The older boy sat up and looked directly at him. “You know you can tell me anything, Holmes.”_

 

_“Yes, I know…” Mycroft turned to look at the town below them instead of Oliver’s face. The gesture was calculated, his shyness nevertheless genuine. “I’m gay.”_

 

_Mycroft had never felt ashamed of his sexuality but even if he was absolutely sure that Oliver wouldn’t judge him, it was still a risk. Society didn’t look favourable on those who were different and any of his plans would be hindered considerably if the fact that he was gay became publicly known at this point._

 

_Oliver was surprised by his statement. Then he smiled, happy to have found someone he wouldn’t have to hide from. “I am too.”_

 

_Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. “I know. - I guessed a while ago.”_

 

_Oliver laughed. “I know your ‘guessing’, Holmes. I would worry what gave me away, but I doubt whatever it was would out me to anyone else.”_

 

_Mycroft grinned_

 

_“Myc, why didn’t you say anything before?”_

 

_The younger boy shrugged._

 

_McIntyre studied him for a bit. “Come on, you can tell me.”_

 

_“I’m not just interested in men in general.” Mycroft turned to look at Oliver wanting to watch the other boy’s reaction when he told him. “I’m interested in you.”_

 

_Oliver’s eyes widened. He had never expected to find someone without resorting to go to London and join the club scene - or at least that’s what he had always imagined what one had to do. Just because several musicians were now more or less openly flaunting their sexuality, it didn’t mean that it was easy for the average young man such as himself to find places where they could openly search for a partner. Especially since he had no interest whatsoever to become the way younger loverboy of some old codger - an arrangement still quite common among the few queers Oliver actually knew._

 

_“Why?” He turned bright red. “I mean - why me? I’m nothing special.”_

 

_“You are to me.” Mycroft had never felt this exposed in his life. It was frightening but at the same time it was weirdly arousing. Well the last part was mostly owed to the fact that he was baring his heart to Oliver. With just the two of them alone on a rooftop in the middle of the night._

 

_“Myc?” Oliver swallowed._

 

_“Yes?” Mycroft’s eyes were drawn to the bopping Adam’s apple._

 

_“May I kiss you?”_

 

_Mycroft raised his eyes to look Oliver in the eyes. “God, yes.”_

*

At first when Greg came home and Mycroft wasn’t there, he didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t unusual for the British Government to work long hours after all. He tried to call the elder Holmes but only got voicemail. A distinct disadvantage as he tried to plan for their dinner, so he sent a quick text.

 

“Do you know when you’ll be home?  
GL”

 

When Mycroft didn’t answer within half an hour, Greg got concerned. Neither him nor his lover had jobs where they could easily afford to be unreachable, Mycroft far more so than himself. They both religiously charged their phones and kept them on person and if some obligation would make it impossible for them to answer, they informed the other beforehand if possible. But nothing that drastic was scheduled for today.

 

Lestrade sent a second text to a different number.

 

“Do you know why Mycroft is currently unreachable?  
GL”

 

If there was one person who always knew what My was up to it was Anthea. The PA immediately called him back.

 

“He left three hours ago to go to the club. I’m just checking… “ There was a well hidden tension in her voice. “Apparently he is still there.”

 

They both let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks for checking - and sorry to bother you for nothing.” The Diogenes was one of the safest places he knew.

 

“Don’t be. If something had happened to Mr. Holmes, we would need to notice as soon as possible. Good Night, Detective Inspector.”

 

After the call ended Greg felt like a complete fool. Why had he worried immediately? Well the answer was simple. Mycroft held a very important position and even if he fooled 99% of the populace into thinking he was a minor office worker, the danger of someone trying to kidnap or hurt him was a very real one. That’s why they had protocols. That’s why they always answered the phone. Greg was now not worried but angry. And the more time passed without My calling him back the angrier he got.


	4. Chapter 4

_Everyone knew that they were friends, so no one took any notice if Oliver and Mycroft spent time together, even if they did so alone. They weren’t open about their relationship. Neither Oliver nor Mycroft would have felt comfortable with the world knowing they were gay. They weren’t ashamed of what they had but the early eighties weren’t just tolerant enough for it not to be a big deal._

 

_They did spend a good deal of their time up on that roof where they had shared their first kiss. Oliver had never shown it to anybody else so it was as safe and private a place as they had during those first few months. Using either of their rooms was risky even if they were quiet, so talking, snuggling, and kissing mostly happened under an open sky._

 

_Where Mycroft drew the line though was actual sex. He wouldn’t lose his virginity anywhere but in a proper bed. Oliver was concerned and they both considered using a hotel - but that was actually a much greater risk. So Mycroft worked out the ideal time to use his bedroom with the minimal risk of them getting disturbed and found out._

 

_“What about condoms?” Oliver wasn’t sure if they even needed those. Neither of them could get pregnant after all. But knowing Myc and his attitude towards any kind of disease or illness he thought it best to point it out._

 

_Mycroft blushed. “That won’t be a problem.”_

 

_“You’ve got condoms? I thought you had never… I mean..”_

 

_“I haven’t.” By now he had turned a pretty dark crimson. “But Mummy doesn’t understand the difference between me knowing my sexuality and me being sexually active.”_

 

_Oliver’s eyes widened. “Your mother KNOWS?”_

 

_“The brat found it was an amusing distraction from Christmas dinner, telling our parents after he deduced it.” Mycroft groaned at the humiliating memories._

 

_Oliver knew by now that Sherlock had learned the art of deduction from Mycroft, so he wasn’t that surprised. He pulled his boyfriend into a hug. “Was it bad?” There was so much empathy and warmth in that voice that Mycroft had the feeling his heart would melt._

 

_“You have no idea.” Then he stopped. “No wait - not like you think. My parents aren’t opposed to it - but… well… Let’s just say I don’t enjoy being dragged into the pharmacy to buy condoms by my mother. Regularly, I might add. ‘Those things to have an expiry date, Mycroft Holmes. I don’t need to know if you used any, but you will restock as necessary.’”_

 

_Oliver looked at him in awed silence for a moment. “Your. Mother. Knows. Your mother knows that you’re gay and goes to buy condoms with you?”_

 

_Mycroft furrowed his brow. “You never talk about your parents…”_

 

_The older boy breathed deeply before answering the unspoken question. “When my parents found out, they threw me out, disowned me actually. I’m really lucky that my godfather feels responsible to take care of my education and has the money to spare to do so.”_

 

_“Oh, Oliver - I’m sorry. Especially about being such a wimp complaining about my family.” He pulled his boyfriend as close as physically possible._

 

_“Don’t be. It’s hardly your fault I’m descended from assholes.” Oliver kissed him. After that all thoughts of parents quickly left their minds._

*

When Mycroft entered their home it was well past ten o’clock. Gregory was obviously in the living room and he was decidedly unhappy if the choice of music and the loudness were any indication. The elder Holmes found the aggressiveness of punk music appalling and it caused him headaches. He really felt unable to face the noise and his rightfully upset lover and tried to quietly make his way into the bedroom. He was halfway there when the music suddenly stopped.

 

“What exactly do you think you’re doing there, My?”

 

Mycroft was surprised at the use of the familiar pet name. Gregory was angry but not that angry apparently. There was still the offer of communication, of reconciliation and eventual forgiveness in that one little word. All he needed to do was talk to him.

 

“I’m on my way to bed. It’s late.”

 

Greg’s face became a mask. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and his voice grew several degrees colder. “It _is_ late indeed.”

 

The government official hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry. I was at the club.”

 

“I know. I called Anthea when you didn’t answer your phone. Made a fool of myself by worrying while you enjoyed a nice whiskey in peace and quiet.”

 

“I didn’t think...”

 

“Bull-SHIT. You always think. You couldn’t stop that brain of yours even if you were trying. In fact sometimes you think too much. One lousy text, Mycroft - that’s all I’m asking. We have rules about this kind of thing.” Greg waited if he would have anything to say, but the British Government stayed quiet. “Talk to me, dammit. I won’t spend the next half hour shouting at a wall. What the hell was so important that you had to hide yourself in your club for hours?”

 

“I really don’t…”

 

“If you’re continuing that sentence with “want to talk about it”, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”

Mycroft flinched at the barely repressed fury in his voice. Greg’s first instinct was to pull him into a hug, but he would be damned if he gave into that. Usually he was the one to offer compromises, being far more used to giving in after years of marriage than the set-in-his-ways, stubborn Holmes brother. But he deserved some form of explanation for Christ’s sake.

 

“I needed time to think, I… still do. Running into Oliver…”

 

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Oliver?”

 

“I understand if you are jealous, but…” He wasn’t able to complete his sentence.

 

“Jealous? Are you serious? You haven’t seen that guy in over two decades. He was your first love - I get it. But we’re hardly teenagers any more. Besides Mycroft - I trust you.”

 

That last part was spoken with such utter conviction that the elder Holmes could almost believe it.

 

“I’m not very _happy_ with you at the moment. But that doesn’t change that. McIntyre is nothing but a potential suspect in a case to me. I’m pissed off because you decided to hide away for hours in that club of yours instead of talking to me. I’m upset because obviously _you_ don’t trust me, at least not enough to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours right now. I’m fucking furious because you knew I’d worry my ass off when you didn’t answer your phone and you didn’t care enough to give me a quick call. And the fact that you tried to sneak by me in the hope of avoiding this confrontation doesn’t exactly help your case either.”

 

Mycroft simply couldn’t deal with the intensity of the situation. All that emotion, so openly on display. All he could do was pull up ‘The Iceman’ to protect himself from becoming too involved.

 

“You are not being very rational, Gregory. I think it would be best if we both went to sleep.” With those words he turned and went for their bedroom.

 

Lestrade knew that any attempt to continue this conversation tonight was hopeless. He took a few calming breaths, trying to get his anger under control but was only partly successful. When he stomped into the bedroom, Mycroft was already putting his pyjamas on. Greg hardly looked his way when he grabbed his pillow and his comforter.

 

“What are you doing Gregory?”

 

“I’m sleeping on the couch, isn’t that obvious?” He stormed out before Mycroft had a chance to say anything else.


	5. Chapter 5

_Mycroft adored Oliver. He had never met anyone outside of his immediate family who voluntarily would spend time with him. Who enjoyed spending time with him. Mycroft felt he could have been content spending the rest of his life happily confined to one room if said room contained enough books and food to keep his body and mind running. Oliver needed people though. He loved being around others, exchanging jokes, caring about them - their wishes and dreams. And because Mycroft couldn’t stand to spend time separated from him for any longer than necessary, he automatically developed something of a social life. Anyone who had known him before university would have agreed that it was more than a minor miracle._

 

_They were lying in bed together fully clothed but snuggling closely._

 

_“I hope Karen will be OK.” Oliver commented. Karen Niles being a fellow student, Oliver shared a class with. She had recently lost her mother and had missed several lessons since then. Mycroft had all but forgotten about her until his boyfriend mentioned her._

 

_“How do you do that?”_

 

_“What?” Oliver had no idea what he meant._

 

_“Caring about everybody as if they mattered.”_

 

_Many people would have been shocked about his choice of words. Oliver just laughed. “Because they do, Silly. And don’t pretend you don’t know that.”_

 

_“Whatever gave you the impression, I cared about people?”_

 

_“Myc, what do you wanna do once you have your degree?”_

 

_“Going into politics, you know that.”_

 

_“What should politicians do?”_

 

_“Act for the greater good of the populace, trying for the highest amount of happiness for the biggest amount of people.”_

 

_“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” Oliver loved slipping in quotes or references to current sci-fi movies, especially since Mycroft always missed it._

 

_“That’s a pretty eloquent way to put it.”_

 

_“It’s Star Trek, my little Vulcan.”_

 

_Mycroft looked at him completely puzzled. “Pardon?”_

 

_“Forget it - what I meant to say is: Bentham betrayed you, lover-boy. Just because your reasons might be a bit brain-heavy, doesn’t mean you don’t care. We just have to teach you about seeing the individuals.”_

 

_“Seeing the individual can easily blind you to the greater necessities.”_

 

_“Well then you shouldn’t become too good at it, I guess. Besides we can always complement each other that way, right? Me getting all mushy and you keeping the big picture in mind.”_

 

_“Right now I’m not caring much about the big picture,” Mycroft confessed as he started kissing his boyfriend._

*

When the government official got up the next morning his lover was already in the kitchen and a pot of freshly brewed coffee was sitting on the counter. Seeing that Gregory wasn’t looking up from the sports pages when he came in and just took a bite out of his toast, Mycroft guessed he was still pretty much in the dog house. He fetched himself a cup of coffee and sat down and began studying the front page.

 

Mycroft wanted to say something - anything - to make things right again. But there really was nothing he could think of that might even begin to work. He was looking at the headline but not really registering anything, trying to keep up the mask of being unaffected.

 

The longer the uncomfortable silence lasted the tenser Lestrade grew. He knew that Mycroft could be a twat, had moved in with him in full awareness of the fact. A part of him knew that the elder Holmes was suffering right now, right across the kitchen table. An even tinier part thought: ‘Good - he deserves it.’ Greg didn’t like that part very much, but he was still too pissed off to ignore it.

 

When Mycroft finally broke the silence, he didn’t make things better. “I really don’t think that you should look at Oliver as a suspect.”

 

Greg put down his part of the paper in disbelieve. “And I think you should leave my job to me and my team.”

 

“You usually don’t mind Holmesian input.”

 

“I usually trust your judgement.”

 

Mycroft took a sharp breath. “You don’t right now?”

 

“On this? No. You’re clearly unable to look at McIntyre objectively, which makes your input pretty much worthless.”

 

Greg got up, ready to leave for work, leaving Mycroft on his own in the kitchen. He stopped at the door though and turned around once more. Seeing the look of hope on Mycroft’s face when he stood in the kitchen door nearly broke his heart.

 

“He gave you his number, didn’t he?”

 

The government official nodded.

 

“Why don’t you meet with him? Talk, see what has changed, catch up, that sort of thing. Maybe it’ll help you getting your head out of your arse.”

*

Mycroft Holmes’ office day started bad and grew worse. First Anthea greeted him in a way that could only be described as frosty - a thing that had only happened twice before in their working relationship. Then his first appointment for the day proved itself far more difficult than imagined and he had to reschedule later meetings - a thing that Mycroft hated immensely. He saw it as a clear sign of failure on his side (either in planning or execution). When Lord Freud decided to drop in, Mycroft knew his day couldn’t get any worse. He knew that pensions were an important issue but the psychoanalyst’s great-grandson always rubbed him the wrong way. Not that he would ever let the man notice his purely personal dislike. Sadly though this meant that David considered Mycroft a friend and sometimes dropped by ‘just to have a chat’.

 

After he left, Mycroft felt absolutely drained. A part of him was still considering Gregory’s suggestion but he wondered how he would go about it. That’s when Anthea entered his office unannounced, carrying a tray. Mycroft eyed the sugar pot and the cake wearily. The tea he thought he might be able to handle. His PA put the tray down and poured him tea but she didn’t stop there. She added milk and two spoons of sugar to the cup and put it right in front of him, next to the plate with the cake, before she sat down opposite of him. She pulled out her blackberry and began working but the look she gave her boss made it very clear that she wouldn’t leave before he had eaten up.

 

“You are not my mother.”

 

“Correct, I won’t be distracted, tricked, or swayed. You hired me for my persistence after all.”

 

“I was under the impression that persistence would work for and not against me.”

 

“It does. Drink your tea, Mr. Holmes.”

 

When Mycroft wanted to protest, she looked up from her phone and continued. “It’s way past noon and you haven’t had a bite to eat since you’ve got here. You had a pretty taxing morning and by now your blood sugar is probably a bit low. The brain needs sugar to work properly as you sure remember from biology lessons. You are no use for anyone this way.”

 

“Anthea…”

 

“Mr. Holmes, I could check with the Detective Inspector but even without doing so I would be willing to bet a considerable amount of money that you didn’t have breakfast today and I’m afraid that IF I should check with my contact at the Diogenes and your driver, I would learn that your last proper meal was yesterday’s lunch. Drink your tea, eat your cake and then I will let you go out and search yourself some real food.”

 

They stared at each other for a considerable amount of seconds before the British Government lowered his gaze and did as he was told.

 

Anthea did sent a text to a certain policeman, while her boss fought a battle with the almond cream cake.

 

“Detective Inspector, I am worried about my employer.  
Do I have reason to be?”

 

“I wish I knew - he’s currently being a sod.  
GL”

 

“Detective Inspector, I was under the distinct impression that we shared our concern for Mr. Holmes. If I was mistaken, please tell me.”

 

“No need to bite my head off - of course I care.  
Can you make him take the afternoon off?  
GL”

 

“I’ll see to it.”

 

“Are you finished?” The question was purely rhetorical. She could see that her boss had indeed finished the plate as well as the overly sweet beverage.

 

Mycroft didn’t bother to answer and poured himself another cup of Assam, this time without any addendums, to wash away the sugary taste .

 

“I believe you can leave now, Anthea.”

 

“On the contrary Mr: Holmes. When I rescheduled your 10 and your 11 o’clock appointment, I also cleared out your afternoon.” A blatant lie. She had only done so after texting with the inspector. But she was sure her boss wouldn’t call her out even if he did notice. “So it’s you who can leave and take care of other matters.” The ‘such as a proper lunch’ stayed unspoken.

 

Mycroft was tempted to remind Anthea who the boss in their relationship was and to stay in his office to work on some things that needed to be taken care of. But she wasn’t his PA without reason. And one of her many qualifications was to see when she was allowed to go how far. So he nodded indicating his agreement, then taking out his phone to call Oliver, while Anthea carried the tray out.


	6. Chapter 6

DI Lestrade studied the reports on both crime scenes and compared them to the details given about the crimes in the books. McIntyre had sent word to his housekeeper to send in his original notes. It would be far easier to go by the cliff notes the author kept as a reference guide than to search 400+ pages per book for any kind of clue besides the direct description of the crime scenes. He had the notes he’d made yesterday but McIntyre himself admitted that after the first half dozen books the details had become quite blurry in his memory.

 

He also looked over the list - eleven more scenarios - the most likely murder from each book to be copied. Greg was very uncomfortable when he thought of the timetable. Three days between the first and second murder. The second killing happening the day before yesterday.

 

His eyes shortly fell on the papercup still sitting on his desk. He’d forgotten all about it after Mycroft had stormed off and now it was sitting there cold and disgusting - twenty-four hour old coffee.

 

Greg almost wished that McIntyre was behind the killings then at least they would have a good chance of stopping the murderer before any more people died. But an insane fan? The books were out there for everyone to read and London had more than her fair share of lunatics.

 

Every letter that was remotely threatening that had ever been addressed to Oliver McIntyre was already on file. McIntyre’s publisher had always insisted on sharing even the slightest possible problem with the authorities. It was a terrible huge bulk and because so far nothing worse than words had happened it had never been thoroughly combed through. His team were currently on it, but it would take time. And in the end - like most police work - it would prove to be absolutely pointless. But if you didn’t do the 90% useless legwork you would inevitably miss the 10% that would eventually lead you to the solution.

 

Some of the murders on the ‘most possible’ list were enough to cause the seasoned DI nightmares: gruesome slaughters, missing body parts, a helpless man in a wheelchair, a couple of kids, a baby for crying out loud.

 

So when Anthea texted him about Mycroft, he really wasn’t in the mood. His answer more than reflected that.

 

The PA was obviously not impressed and more or less threatened to break off their alliance. Greg really didn’t want to lose the only useful ally he had when it came to taking care of his lover - even if he was being a twat at the moment. He asked her to shovel Mycroft’s schedule free for the afternoon. If someone could manage such a miracle, it was Anthea, and if he was any judge of the British Government, then the man desperately needed the time.

*

_“Why did you have to call Peter a moron?!”_

__

 

_The moment the door to Mycroft’s dorm room closed, the yelling started. And apparently a simple “Because he is one” wasn’t the right thing to say._

 

_“To you everyone’s a moron and Peter is a FRIEND.” Oliver was clearly upset._

 

_“Everyone is your friend, Oliver.”_

 

_“And what’s that supposed to mean, Myc? Since when is having friends a bad thing?”_

 

_“That’s not what I meant!” Great, now he was shouting too. Usually Sherlock was the only one able to get under his skin like this._

 

_“Then what the hell do you mean?”_

 

_Mycroft’s voice was icy as he answered. “They are YOUR friends ‘Olli’ - they barely tolerate me.”_

 

_Oliver blinked. Then started laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous, Peter’s your friend too. And the other guys like you as well.” Apparently the thought of anyone not liking Mycroft was quite amusing to him._

 

_Faced with a giggling boyfriend, Mycroft simply fled his own room._

 

_When he returned later, Oliver had left not to return that night._

 

_The next few days were hell for Mycroft. He was convinced Oliver had left him, whenever they met it was always in class or in the company of fellow students - people who couldn’t know. So they acted like friendly associates, even if Mycroft seemed a bit more moody than usual. It was six days before Oliver dropped into Mycroft’s room unannounced._

 

_“Hey Myc.” Judging by his smile, Oliver didn’t realise anything was wrong with the picture._

 

_Mycroft looked up from his books. “What are you doing here?”_

 

_Oliver took a step back, startled. “OK - not the welcome I’d expected. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”_

 

_Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “You act as if nothing happened.”_

 

_“Nothing did happen. I mean we had a bit of a row but that’s hardly important, is it?”_

 

_“We haven’t met in almost a week.”_

 

_Oliver pointed at Mycroft’s books. “There are exams coming up. If even you hit the books, what do you think us normal folk have to do?”_

 

_Mycroft’s mask broke down. “I thought you broke up with me.”_

 

_“Over a simple tiff? Don’t be ri… Oh god, you really thought…” Oliver stormed forward and pulled Mycroft into his arms, the other boy now crying. “Oh Myc, I’m so sorry.”_


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft met Oliver in a small bistro close to Oliver’s hotel. McIntyre was wearing casual clothes, close fitting trousers, his shirt hanging out with the top two buttons undone. Mycroft didn’t exactly approve of this level of casualness outside of his own four walls but for Oliver it worked. Twenty years and his knees still felt as wobbly as that one day in February when they accidentally ran into each other a bit too soon after the break up and both more or less fled the other’s presence. His stomach still felt like nervous butterflies when looking at the other, exactly like the day Oliver broke up with him. And there was that longing, similar but not quite like the one he felt when he’d first laid eyes on Oliver McIntyre.

 

Mycroft knew all about hormones and pheromones and how potential genetic compatibility influenced those effects (a thing that of course was irrelevant between two men). He always prided himself on being someone who was ruled by his brain rather than his base instincts and under normal circumstances it was an easy thing for him to do. But something about Oliver still threw him completely off balance.

 

And somehow Oliver was still as oblivious to this as he had always been.

 

“Hey Myc.” Oliver sat down with a smile. “Wow, are you always wearing suits? Or did I just catch you on a work break again?”

 

“Both actually. I had an unexpected free afternoon popping up and came here directly from my office. And I usually don’t go out dressed in anything below a three-piece anyway.”

 

Oliver shook his head. “I guess you have an image to upkeep, working in politics. Makes me glad once again that I chose to become an author. No one expects you to dress up except maybe for the occasional promo photo shoot. And given the kind of books I’m known for, people would rather expect a metal band tee than a button down shirt.”

 

“To each their own.” Mycroft commented diplomatically.

 

Oliver snorted. “Which means you strongly disapprove. I never got your dislike for comfortable clothes.” He turned around to order an Indian blend for himself and a piece of chocolate cake.

 

Mycroft just ordered an Earl Grey and told himself that he would get some salad later.

 

“Look at us - so much has changed, we don’t even know where to start. We used to be able to talk about everything.”

 

“Indeed we did.” Mycroft’s face and voice stayed carefully neutral.

 

The smile on Oliver’s face died and he sighed. “How about I start then?” Without waiting for an answer, he began to talk about his life. How he had travelled the world for a few years, financing himself through physical labour. How he’d moved to Scotland for a another couple of years to help out his godfather when he became ill. How he’d moved around after the man’s death, mostly to be with one boyfriend or other. How he never stopped writing but had been unable to find a publisher for anything he’d written.

 

“I moved to Liverpool twelve years ago because of Mark. I first met him in New Zealand when he was doing ‘work and travel’. We ran into each other again at the cinema, both coming out of X-Men 2 - one of those popular entertainment movies you could barely ever stand. You probably would have scoffed at the thinly veiled metaphor for homosexuality. Mark and I had a good run. He was the one who got the first Wolfgang Hart novel published and I owe him a lot.” Oliver leaned back. “He’s still my agent but we split ten months ago.

 

I’m currently in London to help with the promotion of the new book. It’ll come out in about three weeks.

 

So that about sums it up. You’re pretty much up to date with my professional, family, and love life.”

 

Mycroft studied him carefully. All signs were indicating that Oliver had been absolutely honest with him. That is, he hadn’t talked about the Moorcomp murders, Gregory had interviewed him on and that case was clearly on his mind, dampening his mood. But he did his best to keep that thing from his mind. It wasn’t as if he could talk about an ongoing murder investigation. Oliver had told him everything he could, had given him the data he so desperately needed to make any kind of decision.

 

“Any questions?”

 

“I feel thoroughly informed. Thank you.”

 

“So what about you?”

 

Mycroft took a sip from his tea, gaining another moment to decide what exactly he wanted to tell Oliver - what he was able to tell Oliver.

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

*

 

_“So you are Oliver?”_

 

_“Yes, Ma’am.”_

 

_Mycroft had never seen Oliver this nervous. Usually his boyfriend was the very picture of good-natured confidence. But faced with Mummy Holmes he looked ready to turn around and bolt any moment._

 

_“Oh, don’t ‘Ma’am’ me - I’m Violet. And my husband’s Siger.”_

 

_His father offered Oliver his hand, who nervously shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Sir.”_

 

_“Likewise, Oliver.”_

 

_“Now how about we go to that nice restaurant, you told us about, Mycroft. There’s no use standing around on a windy platform, is there?”_

 

_“Of course not, Mummy. Sherlock!” His little pest of a brother had already wandered off to study some interesting thing that caught his fancy._

 

_The youngest Holmes just rolled his eyes and began to stroll over slowly._

 

_“So, that’s the brat then?”_

 

_It was a good-natured statement. Oliver’s voice was clearly full of warm humour and gentle teasing. Oliver was a natural diplomat. He simply clicked with people without any effort. Yet with one simple sentence he’d managed to screw up. Mycroft could see how the latent dislike in his brother’s face turned into full on hatred._

 

_“So, that’s the fuck-buddy then?”_

 

_Eleven year old Sherlock decided that the look of shock on McIntyre’s face was more than worth Mummy’s scolding and Mycroft’s anger._

 

_Oliver had turned pale at Sherlock’s words. Not only at the hateful language but also at the terrible disregard of any need of secrecy. He looked around but apparently no one had heard the boy. Mycroft gently lay a hand on his arm - as intimate a gesture as they allowed themselves out in the public. When Oliver looked at him, he could see a tense smile on his boyfriend’s face. Mycroft whispered “I’m going to kill the twat” between gritted teeth._

 

_Oliver forced a smile on his own face as well. “I think your mum is doing a great job of that.”_

 

_Mycroft snorted. He knew Sherlock’s ‘I’m bored’ face and was very aware that he wasn’t letting anything their mother said get to him. When his brother’s eyes drifted his way one glance ensured that Sherlock knew he was in trouble with his big brother. A fact that impressed the little monster far more than either of their parents ever managed._

 

_After a thorough scolding and Sherlock’s insincere apology all five of them went to the restaurant._

 

 *

 

“What about your parents? What ever happened to the brat?”

 

“My parents are both happily retired by now and are enjoying the simple life - gardening in the country and suchlike. Like most parents they wish for my brother and I to have more time to spare, spending it with them - either visiting or on the phone. Mummy is still her old commanding self. Sherlock… is doing fine these days. I would have thought you would have caught some of the commotion around him a few years back.”

 

“I did,” Oliver confessed. “It was hard to miss. But I wasn’t sure how comfortable you’d be to talk about it. I mean I know you adore the brat, so it couldn’t have been easy.”

 

“It wasn’t a pleasurable experience. But it’s over now and Sherlock is doing well, helping out the police in some of their more baffling cases. And being as insufferable as ever.”

 

*

 

_Mummy and Father actually liked Oliver and did their best to make him feel comfortable. The  amount of inane small talk would have driven Mycroft insane under other circumstances but he was just glad that three of the four most important people in his life actually got along._

 

_“... and that’s how I met Myc.” Oliver ended the little excursion that answered his mother’s question._

 

_“His name is MyCROFT.” Sherlock insisted from the side. Faced with their mother’s unamused scowl he added “It IS” before falling silent again._

 

_They continued to talk and Mycroft somehow managed to keep Oliver and his mother from exchanging too many personal details that he wouldn’t want the respective other party to know about. After almost an hour Sherlock caught his eye. The brat was bored out of his skull and Mycroft could sympathize. After the introduction at the station Mycroft thought his little brother deserved some comeback but seeing him now, obviously suffering, he came to the conclusion that maybe Sherlock had paid enough. Besides each bored moment where he couldn’t do what he wanted and wasn’t the centre of attention just added to Sherlock’s internal pressure valve. He would explode sooner or later, no matter how cross Mummy had already been. He waited for a break in the natural flow of conversation._

 

_“Mummy?”_

 

_“Yes, Mycroft?”_

 

_“We’ll probably be here for a while. And this is a quiet town. I’m sure there’s lots of interesting things for Sherlock to discover outside.”_

 

_Violet Holmes looked at her youngest who had sat up straight and was already at the edge of his seat. “Sherlock - don’t wander out of calling range. And be back here in an hour.”_

 

_They hardly heard the “Yes, Mummy” as the boy ran out of the restaurant._

 

_Oliver turned to Mycroft. “That was nice of you.”_

 

_The older Holmes boy just shook his head. “I just couldn’t stand watching his pout all the time.”_

 

*

 

Oliver chuckled remembering the boy he had only met a handful of times and Mycroft’s seemingly endless complaints. “I’m sure he has grown out of the worst of it.”

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, perfectly conveying his opinion on the matter.

 

*

 

_“Sherloooock! SHERLOOOOOCK! Damn the little twat. He always has to get both of us into trouble.”_

 

_Oliver could clearly tell that Mycroft was worrying about his brother. “Why would you get into trouble if he tries to play hide and seek?” He started looking around if he could catch a glimpse of the younger boy._

 

_“Because I asked Mummy to let him go? Because I couldn’t find him? Doesn’t really matter, I need to find him.”_

 

_“I’ll go tell your parents to wait for him here, then we can split up and try to find him.”_

 

_Mycroft nodded. “I’ll start with the northern part of the city, you go south. We meet back here every half hour in case someone of us finds him”_

 

_It was Oliver who finally found Sherlock totally engulfed in the study of the building blocks of an old house. The boy was so busy scratching at the mortar that he didn’t take any note of his surroundings. Oliver didn’t announce his presence until he laid a hand on the child’s shoulder._

 

_Sherlock nearly jumped out of his clothes when a hand suddenly clutched his arm._

 

_“Wasn’t getting into trouble once enough for one day?”_

 

_“What are you talking about?” The young boy spat at Oliver._

 

_The student shook his head. “I guess you lost track of the time while playing.”_

 

 _“I wasn’t_ playing _. I was studying and experimenting.”_

 

_“Well little scientist - time to go back to the restaurant. Your parents and Myc are pretty worried about you.” Oliver started leading the way his hand still firmly on the boy’s arm._

 

_“MyCROFT knows exactly that I can look after myself.”_

 

 _“That might be true, but My_ croft _also will be pretty pissed off about the fact that he had to spend almost an hour running around town searching for you.”_

 

*

 

“And how about you?”

 

There it was the question Mycroft had dreaded but knew that it would come. “I’m holding a minor position in the government. A lot of work and not much public recognition but I knew that when I started out.”

 

“Do you ever regret that decision?”

 

“Do you ever regret travelling or becoming an author?”

 

“Not really. I always followed who I am. Even when things get hard, I know there really never was much of an alternative for me. And don’t start with the existentialism again. If I had made different choices, I would be a different person today.”

 

“There you have your answer then.”

 

Oliver looked down and smiled. “Indeed I have.” He looked at Mycroft. “You know I did miss this.”

 

“What exactly?”

 

“Your annoyingly superior attitude. I think you’re the only person I ever was with who was so clearly my intellectual better, and as stupid as it may sound I just realized I kind of missed that. You were always challenging me.”

 

Mycroft blinked. “I think you might still be the only person I know who would put it quite like that.”

 

“Do you remember Prof. Higgins’ face when you explained to him that you found the family of Romanic languages a tad boring to learn?”

 

And with that they started about an hour of reminiscence. It was mostly Oliver doing the talking but Mycroft’s short and poignant comments showed that he actually was invested in the conversation. After some time Oliver started asking questions again.

 

“Myc? You only talked about your job, when I asked how you were doing. What about a relationship? Boyfriend? Boyfriends? Girlfriend? Is there anybody special in your life?”

 

Mycroft’s voice was very quiet when he answered. “His name is Gregory.”

 

Oliver’s brow furrowed. He sounded concerned. “Is he treating you right?”

 

“Gregory? Yes, of course. He’s… he’s good to me. Good _for_ me - I’ve been assured by various associates.” Mycroft smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The row they had had yesterday was still heavy on his mind. But it wasn’t really Oliver’s problem.

 

Just as Oliver was about to reply Mycroft’s phone went off.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

It was Griffin, a caller he simply couldn’t ignore no matter how much he despised the man. He really wished he could have found a better replacement for Allan after his death. Some nonsense about the Australians. Griffin was on location and naturally possessed information Mycroft didn’t but for his next decision he still needed his boss’s OK. Mycroft let him list everything he’d found out since the last briefing and connected it with everything in his head. Whatever Griffin did or didn’t do would be a risk, and Mycroft hated risks. Sometimes though they couldn’t be avoided. Griffin had a clear preference and in this case the government official begrudgingly agreed.

 

“Do it.” He ended the call without waiting for an answer. He needed to get back to his office as quickly as possible to deal with the fallout of what his man was about to do. “I’m terribly sorry, Oliver, but something at work came up.”

 

McIntyre nodded. “Must be serious judging by your face. Good luck sorting it out, Myc.”

 

With a quick “Thank you” and a generous amount of cash to cover the bill as well as a generous tip, Mycroft Holmes left to be the British Government once more.


	8. Chapter 8

When Mycroft came home there was light in the kitchen and the smell of pizza greeted him. A part of him just wanted to go and slip into the bedroom unnoticed and fall asleep. The rational part of his brain told him that cowardice was only going to add to the problem. So he did go to the kitchen, finding Gregory at the kitchen table an open pizza carton with precut slices and a bottle of beer in front of him. When he sat down, the DI held up a piece, offering it to him. 

 

Mycroft eyed the slice suspiciously. It was chicken and broccoli, a combo Lestrade would never have gotten just for himself. It was still hot, so he’d just returned with it. It wasn’t really food - it was a peace offering. Mycroft took the slice and bit into it with more gusto than he actually felt. When the pizza hit his tastebuds though, he realized how hungry he was. Yet, he still carefully kept from wolfing it down.

 

“Thank you, Gregory.”

 

Lestrade looked at his own food instead of Mycroft’s face when he answered with a shrug. “Anthea called, said you had an unexpectedly difficult day and that you’d be home in about 40 minutes.”

 

“Anthea should stop trying to out-mother-hen my actual mother.” Mycroft took another bite, chewing carefully.

 

Greg didn’t deem that worthy of an answer. He quietly ate another slice and drank from his bottle.

 

When Mycroft had finished his first slice, Lestrade passed him another one without making any fuss about it.

 

He wasn’t sure if it was the ongoing silence or the prospect of more food but finally the British Government felt the need to say something.

 

“I really don’t want you to sleep on the couch tonight.” When he was faced with more silence, Mycroft continued. “I had a terrible night last night. I hate that we’re arguing. And I’m sorry.”

 

“Are you? Or are you just saying that because you think that’s what I want to hear?”

 

“Gregory.” 

 

“OK - sorry, that was a shitty thing to say.”

 

“Indeed. And I _am_ sorry. I never wanted you to worry about me.” He more quietly added. “I never asked you to care that much. Caring is not an advantage.”

 

“Mycroft you twat, I don’t give a flying shit about advantage or not. The fact is I do care about you and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

 

The British Government studied the slice of pizza before him intensely. “So where are you sleeping tonight?”

 

“I moved my stuff back into the bedroom before I went out to get dinner. I really don’t want me to sleep on the couch either, My.”

 

Mycroft relaxed visibly and began eating the second slice. Lestrade finished off the rest of the pizza.

 

*

  
  


It felt good sleeping close to his lover again. Greg had missed the warmth, the smell, the closeness. Mycroft being there kept the list from giving him nightmares.

 

It didn’t help though when his phone went off at half three in the morning. Greg took the call and slunk out of the bedroom, hoping against hope that Mycroft would manage to fall asleep again if he was quick enough.

 

“Lestrade.”

 

“DS Pegg. We’ve just found a young junkie under a bridge, Sir. It matches the criteria for victims you wanted to be called on.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Hungerford Bridge, west bank.”

 

“I’m on my way.” Inwardly Lestrade cursed while he hastily got dressed. The troll bridge murders were part of book 5, so apparently the killer wasn’t caring too much about sticking to the chronological order.

  
  


When Lestrade arrived at the scene of the crime forensics was already well into their work. After talking the likely scenarios through with McIntyre and going through them with his team, Lestrade knew in theory what awaited him below the bridge. Decades working for the Yard meant, he had seen a lot already. But experience also taught him that this particular crime scene would present the material for quite a few nightmares. The DS who had called him came his way the moment, she saw him approaching.

 

“The victim’s a twenty-something year old female. No means of identification on the body, homeless by the looks of it. The pathologist will have to take a look but she was probably high when our guy killed her. He… he beheaded her. Why would anyone behead someone, Sir?”

 

“Because that’s what trolls do.” When he saw her face, he decided the young colleague obviously needed a bit more. “DS Pegg, right?”

 

She nodded.

 

“I know this looks bad, with the blood and the mutilated body. The murderer is clearly a lunatic. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Catching people like him to protect everyone. It’s a shitty job sometimes…”

 

“But someone has to do it.” She straightened with her words.

 

He smiled at her proudly. She was young and she wouldn’t sleep all too well for a couple of nights to come but she had the right attitude to pull through.

 

“We’ve found the head on a pole over there, Sir - if you wanna take a look?.”

 

“Not really but I’d better do it anyway.” He began the not-so-ancient police ritual of clothing himself in one-way coveralls to avoid contamination of the crime scene.

  
  


There was blood everywhere. Lestrade didn’t begrudge forensics their work. Usually there wouldn’t be this much blood at a crime scene, but usually people weren’t beheaded. Greg took a good look at the severed head. The poor girl probably was closer to twenty than twenty-five, maybe even younger. Living on the street and the drugs had taken their toll on her already and made her look older than her actual years. And death hadn’t helped either of course. He took a picture of the face with his phone.

 

“What are you doing there, Sir?”

 

“Trying to help get her identified. The faster we know who she is, the faster we can inform her family. Not exactly a pleasant prospect but it has to be done.” He didn’t hesitate to sent the photo with an accompanying text to the one person he knew who knew about every second homeless person in London, more so by sight probably. Besides Sherlock would neither be bothered by the fact that he got a photo of a severed head nor by the time of night.

 

“Do you know who she is?

GL”

 

The answer came promptly, so Sherlock had apparently been awake.

 

“Zazz - Dori Carlton/Campton (?) something similar, from Chester

SH”

 

“Thanks

GL”

 

“Interesting case?

SH”

 

Greg groaned. If there was one person he wanted to keep out of this mess it was Sherlock. Besides it wasn’t really a riddle that had them baffled, so it wasn’t really the consulting detective’s forte.

 

“Hardly a 3

GL”

 

Not that he really understood the Holmesian scale but he had enough of a vague idea to know this was discouraging.

 

He turned towards DS Pegg. “She’s from Chester, name’s Dori Carlton or very similar.”

 

Her eyes widened. “That was quick.”

 

“Work the beat long enough and you earn yourself some really good contacts. It’s a start. The colleagues from Chester should be able to find her fairly quickly.”

 

*

 

Mycroft lay in their bed and couldn’t sleep. Gregory being called in the middle of the night when it wasn’t his shift wasn’t a good sign. His lover had tried not to disturb him but of course the mobile had woken him as well and with Gregory out of the bed, he couldn’t fall asleep again. Before he had let the DI into his life, the bed had never seemed this huge and cold to him. He had always enjoyed the comfortable space. Now he found that he missed the warmth of a body next to his own.

 

He told himself that this was ridiculous, given their workloads and independent schedules they often spend 2 or 3 days a week sleeping on their own. But tonight was different. Tonight it was important that they both slept in each other’s arms. He needed to feel forgiven after last night.

 

Gregory hadn’t left in anger. He had snuck out in an attempt to give his partner the much needed sleep. Mycroft remembered the short, gentle touch of his lover’s hand, probably happening completely subconsciously, gracing his still half-sleeping form in a calm parting gesture. 

 

So why couldn’t he get his body to relax into sleep?

 

*

 

_ Mycroft gasped as Oliver bit down on his shoulder. His own fingers curled in response and burrowed into flesh. _

 

_ “God, Myc you’re gorgeous.” _

 

_ “Don’t leave a mark.” Mycroft barely managed to vocalize with his lover’s teeth teasing his nipples. _

 

_ “Why?” Came the breathless request. “Are you planning to show off your chest? Don’t worry so much, Myc - I won’t leave anything visible where someone might see it.” _

 

_ A part of him wanted to protest, in a dorm there was always the possibility of someone spotting something by accident. He was about to visit his family for the weekend and Sherlock was a nosy little brat. Any thoughts of objection - any thoughts to be precise - were killed though, when Oliver started to do  _ that _ thing with his fingers. _

 

*

  
Mycroft woke with a start. It had been more of a memory than a dream. At that moment he hated his subconsciousness and he wished he could delete memories as easily as his brother.


	9. Chapter 9

When all was said and done at the crime scene it was getting so early that doing anything but going straight to his office would have been stupid. Lestrade was once again grateful for the coffee machine on his floor, probably the only thing that would keep him alive through the day. He texted Sally to please bring something resembling breakfast when she came to work and started writing up his initial report.

 

During the day they managed to find and contact Dori Carlson’s parents. They would come down tomorrow to identify the body. Greg was glad he hadn’t been the one to bring the message this time but he wasn’t looking forward to accompanying a pair of grieving parents to the body and head of their dead daughter.

 

Forensics called in. Apparently Zazz had been dead when her head was removed from her body, a small mercy at least. The blood at the crime scene hadn’t been hers but actually pig’s blood, splattered around to make it look as if her heart had still been beating when she was beheaded. Considering how popular black pudding was, he doubted the pig’s blood would be much of a lead, but Greg knew they had to check with butchers all around to check for unusual purchases.

 

Then there was the biro forensics found - stylishly black with an engraving of _O.M._ and a pair of animal eyes. It didn’t look cheap, the quality apparent even covered in blood as it was.

 

With almost no sleep Greg wasn’t in the mood for stupid games. He was pretty sure the thing had been planted but he couldn’t ignore it of course. So he called on McIntyre in his hotel.

*

“Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan. Come in.” The author tried to be friendly and polite, but the police appearing at his door so shortly after their last talk couldn’t mean anything good. McIntyre knew that and didn’t look too happy to see them. “I guess you being here means nothing good.” Looking at the two serious faces, he nodded to himself. “I thought so. I’m forgetting my manners though - please take a seat.”

 

Greg and Sally sat down. “Your candidates seem to hold up - we found the victim of the troll murderer this morning.”

 

Oliver took in a sharp breath. “He’s skipping around?”

 

“So it would seem. Donovan?”

 

Sally pulled out the evidence bag containing the biro.

 

“Have you seen this before?” Greg asked in his best DI voice.

 

McIntyre grew pale. Then he nodded. “Well not with so much blood on it but…” He swallowed.

 

Greg watched his reactions carefully. Oliver McIntyre got up and went over to the small night stand next to his hotel bed. When he came back he showed the two police officers a pen identical to the one in their evidence bag in all details except the blood.

 

“Mark gave them to me as a gift. He ordered half a dozen claiming I would certainly manage to lose a couple. I have three of them at home in my desk, this I travel with.”

 

“And the other two?” Sally wanted to know.

 

“I’m afraid Mark was quite right in his assessment - I’ve lost two over the last two years.”

 

“Who is Mark?”

 

“Mark Norton, my agent.”

 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but these look a bit expensive to just gift away half a dozen to a client.”

 

Oliver looked down sadly. “We were involved until recently.”

 

Greg caught the tentative look. McIntyre wanted to check his reaction. He had faced enough adverse reaction to his own sexuality to understand the cautious hesitation. He gave a short nod to acknowledge the answer.

 

“Is that the same manager you didn’t want us to involve because you thought, he might use these murders for publicity?”

 

“What? Yes - I mean technically he is, but you can’t honestly think that...”

 

“At the moment I’m not thinking anything Mr. McIntyre. I’m just trying to get all the information and facts straight.”

 

Oliver nodded. “Of course, sorry for my outburst. I…” He took a deep breath. “I might write about gruesome killings but this… I’ve never even seen a real body in my life.”

 

“We understand, Mr. McIntyre. But we do need your cooperation on this.”

 

“Yes, of course. Whatever I can do…”

 

Sally, bless her instincts decided that this was the right time to chime in. “Where were you yesterday evening between eight and ten?”

*

When they left, they left behind a thoroughly unsettled McIntyre.

 

“What do you think Sally?”

 

“Even if he has no alibi, I think his reactions were genuine.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, that’s what my gut tells me too. He’s either telling the truth or he’s a terrifyingly good liar. Still possible though.”

 

Donovan nodded. “That’s why we’re not ruling him out completely, boss. In the end evidence will tell us for sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Mycroft at all in this chapter. How did that happen?


	10. Chapter 10

_“A vampire novel? Really, Oliver?”_

 

_Oliver grabbed the paperback out of the mocking hands of his boyfriend. “I happen to LIKE vampire novels.”_

 

_“You like Byron. You like Wilde.”_

 

_“I also like vampires, stop being such a terrible snob, Myc.”_

 

_Mycroft leaned back on his bed, studying the other boy carefully. “Why?” He asked finally._

 

_Oliver shrugged. “I could spout some bullshit about vampires, werewolves, and somesuch representing our ‘id’, our secret desires and how supernatural fiction is actually deeply insightful from a psychological standpoint. But to be honest - sometimes I just like to read about violence and crime.”_

 

_“Why?”_

 

_“It’s just entertaining. Not everything has to have a deeper reason.” He jumped on the bed next to Mycroft with a grin. “Besides monsters can be incredibly sexy.” He leaned in and kissed his boyfriend._

 

_“Stop that.”_

 

_“You’ve never complained before.” Oliver’s face hung only inches from Mycroft’s and his grin could only be described as wicked._

 

_“You need to leave for class in less than fifteen minutes. You should get ready.”_

 

 _“I_ am _getting ready.”_

 

_With Oliver’s hips pressing into his, he knew exactly what his boyfriend meant. He swallowed once and fought to regain his composure. “Class.”_

 

_Oliver leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “Professor Carmichael is ill and his assistant who’ll do today’s class is a moron. I’ll learn far more worthwhile things staying here.”_

 

_Mycroft gave up. When Oliver was in such a mood there was no place for reasoning, so there really was no reason for him not to start enjoying the ride._

 

*

 

Mycroft was surprised when he saw who had interrupted his lunch with Anthea. It wasn’t unusual that his mobile rang at the most inconvenient times, but he hadn’t expected a call from Oliver McIntyre. He remembered to give his PA a small apologetic smile before taking the call, but only just.

 

“Oliver.”

 

“Hey Myc.” Despite his best attempts his voice betrayed his emotional state.

 

Anthea watched in fascination as her boss’s face became obviously worried. The list of people who managed to get an emotional response out of Mr. Holmes with just a few words was very short and so far she hadn’t known anyone named ‘Oliver’ was on it.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I… I really don’t know if I should talk about it, but… Well I _need_ to talk to someone and at the moment you’re my best choice… You can’t talk to anyone about this.”

 

“Don’t worry about that. I am more than capable of keeping a secret.”

 

“You know when we ran each other at the Yard?”

 

“The Moorcomp murders, yes.”

 

“There have been more. There’s someone out there murdering people, using my books as a script and I… I think the police thinks it might be me, or maybe Mark. The way the DI kept asking those questions… And the terrible thing is there are four people dead and it’s somehow my fault.”

 

“It’s NOT your fault, Oliver. You’ll do your best to help the Yard and rest assured they will catch the madman.”

 

“You know DI Lestrade, don’t you? Is he good?”

 

“His team is competent and he’s the best DI the Yard has. He _will_ catch the killer.” There was a slight pause. “You sound distressed, Oliver. Do you want to meet?”

 

Anthea took in a sharp breath. This was so far outside of her boss’s normal behaviour that she was honestly disturbed.

 

“What about your job?”

 

“Let that be my concern. England won’t fall just because I’ll take an afternoon off.”

 

“Can you come to the bistro again?” The relief was palpable even through the phone.

 

“Give me two hours. I have to rearrange some appointments.”

 

“Thank you, Myc.”

 

After Oliver had ended the call, Mycroft looked at his PA.

 

“Should I know about ‘Oliver’, Sir?”

 

He contemplated that question before reaching a conclusion. “Mr. McIntyre needs to be none of your concern. He’s a strictly personal association.”

 

“Very well, Sir.” Anthea began typing away on her Blackberry, beginning to rearrange her boss’s schedule once again. She would begin checking up on Oliver McIntyre once he’d left. It was only good manners waiting until he was gone before disobeying his wishes.

 

*

 

... and hush my love

you hear this drum,

this choking beating of my heart?

I look above,

I see the clouds.

on endless skies of art.

 

_“And what do you think?” Oliver was eager to get Mycroft’s opinion._

 

_“I’m not much for poetry, you know that.”_

 

_“You don’t like it.” The older boy looked deflated._

 

_“I didn’t say that, Oliver. I’m just saying, I might not be the best judge of your writing. I liked the start and you stuck to structure nicely, it’s almost a forgotten art nowadays. I think the end might need some work still. Also it’s a bit… ‘mushy’.”_

 

_“What can I say, Myc? You make me go all mushy inside.” He planted a kiss on his boyfriend’s lips. “Is that really so bad?”_

 

_Mycroft had already started to breathe more heavily. “Not entirely, no.”_

 

*

 

When Mycroft Holmes returned home, he found that Lestrade had already gone to bed. After approximately three hours of sleep last night, it wasn’t really that surprising. The British Government could have easily worked for a few hours more and after the last couple of days it would have been a good idea to make sure, he wouldn’t fall all that far behind. But after talking with Oliver for two hours and spending the next seventy three minutes asking himself what the hell he was doing before he decided to go home, Mycroft just wanted to call in an early night himself.

 

He forced himself through the necessity of dinner and ran for an hour on his treadmill to get his mind to calm down before he finally turned in. When he snuck under the covers, Gregory  immediately rolled around greeting him with a kiss.

 

“Did I wake you?”

 

“The shower.”

 

“Sorry, I should have been more considerate.”

 

“Don’t be, I was having a weird dream anyway, tossing around more than really sleeping.” Lestrade rearranged himself more comfortably, opened his arms in an invitation. “How was your day, Love?”

 

Mycroft huddled against his lover’s chest, enjoying the strong arms surrounding him. “I met with Oliver again,” he confessed.

 

“You did?”

 

“He phoned me after Sergeant Donovan and you left. He was pretty distraught about the whole thing and needed to talk to someone.”

 

“And he called you?”

 

“He is under the distinct impression that it wouldn’t be good if any of this went public, and he trusted me to be able to keep my mouth shut. And since he met me at the Yard, he assumed, I knew at least a little about the killings or at least I was allowed to know officially. So I listened. It was what he needed.”

 

He stared into the darkness, his ear listening to his lover’s steady heartbeat.

 

“What is it about Oliver?” Lestrade could feel Mycroft tensing in his arm. He hugged him closer, making sure that his lover knew that he wasn’t searching for a fight. “I’m just trying to understand, My.”

 

He kept staring at the ceiling in the darkness of their bedroom, waiting for an answer, Mycroft’s breath against his chest. He could practically hear the cogs in his lover’s head turning, trying to find the right words.

 

“When I first saw Oliver McIntyre I fell in love instantly. I was seventeen and crazy. Those two always go together, I’ve read once. I spent half a year slowly working my way into his pants. We were together for all of university and my feelings never diminished over the years. I wasn’t getting used to any of it. While I was with him I was in a permanent state of being open and vulnerable.”

 

“So I guess Oliver knows you better than anyone.” Greg couldn’t quite keep the sadness out of his voice.

 

“No!” Mycroft protested. “He knows who I was when I was with him. I’m not that person, maybe I never was. Oliver’s Myc was a courageous young man, full of love and with a good heart.” And a part of him still longed to be that man.

 

“Oh My.” Greg turned on his side so he could hug his lover closer. When Mycroft looked up from his chest to search his face for any clue of what Greg was thinking, Lestrade leaned in and kissed him gently. It was clear that at least a part of Mycroft still loved Oliver, never had a chance to get over him. Greg wanted to help him but at the same time he was afraid of losing the man that he loved.

 

“I love you, Gregory.” To Mycroft’s own ears it sounded more like the desperate attempt to convince himself.

 

“What did you think when you first met me, My?”

 

There was a long pause before the elder Holmes answered. “Mostly that you were a nuisance keeping me from my idiot brother. When you stood up to me, I was impressed though. I respected that and I thought you might be useful, a man of integrity who cared about Sherlock.”

 

“And that’s it?”

 

“You hardly want to know everything I noticed that evening - or if you do I could recall it with a bit of concentration.”

 

Greg sighed. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

 

“I’ve upset you further.”

 

“It’s just me being silly.” After all, what right had he to expect differently? His first impression of Mycroft had been that of an annoying bully in a suit. “When did you first realize you had feelings for me?”

 

Again Mycroft took some time before answering. “I first started contemplating the possibility after you were shot. Those thoughts weren’t romantic in nature though. I realized that I not only trusted you but that losing you would have affected me. I was thinking about breaking off our association right then.”

 

Greg took in a sharp breath. “You would have left me lying in that hospital like you’d throw away a used hanky?”

 

Mycroft tiredly closed his eyes. “Coming there, visiting, meant that I accepted your place as a confidant - a friend. I don’t make those kinds of decision lightly. Emotional entanglement only leads to complications.”

 

At that point Greg had already been in love with Mycroft for some time. The thought of being left there on his own even if it didn’t happen was enough to almost break his heart.

 

“We already were friends though.”

 

“I’m afraid I can be a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to emotions.” Seeing how his lover retreated in on himself, Mycroft panicked. He didn’t know what he could say or do. His words only succeeded in hurting Gregory. “I’m sorry.”

 

Lestrade gave a small sigh. “You’re you. I knew what I was getting myself into, My.” He kissed his lover to assure them both that things would be alright, before turning around to  sleep.

 

*

 

The next days were quite stressful. Mycroft did his best to gather up on his missed meetings, dealing with a rather reserved PA. Greg was doing his best to gather as much evidence as possible. Oliver did his promotional gigs, doing his best not to let anyone see anything but a jovial facade.

 

And they were all very tense come Wednesday. If the killer stayed on his schedule there would be a new murder.

 

The whole day Lestrade was tense like a coiled spring and he snapped twice at people on his team without much reason. It was Sally who finally sent him home, basically kicking him out of his own office.

 

“Look, Sir, just because I can’t get laid it’s no reason you shouldn’t - go to that man waiting for you at home and let him distract you for all our sakes.”

 

He followed her advice as best as he could but Mycroft wasn’t all that helpful. Oliver meant that his lover’s presence would continue to remind him of the serial killings. He was at home but Greg was just waiting for the inevitable call to come.

 

Only it didn’t.

 

Wednesday came and went without another murder and Lestrade felt relaxing slightly, maybe they weren’t under quite as pressing a schedule as he’d thought.

 

The next victims were found on Sunday, one of them dead for three days already.

 

“Another couple, but why did the murderer kill them with three days between them?”

 

“To stay true to the books, Sir. This one wasn’t on McIntyre’s list but it’s in book 13 ‘True Monsters’.”

 

“Donovan?” Greg was grateful that she had apparently read the book series.

 

“One of the supposed victims of the gnomes in book twelve was never found. It drove Wolfgang crazy until he found out the guy never was captured by the gnomes but was in fact the first victim of the serial killer in book thirteen who then later killed the girlfriend when she stumbled into him. It’s basically the opening of “True Monsters”.”

 

“The killer in that one was human, wasn’t he?”

 

“All too much, Sir.”


	11. Chapter 11

The last couple of days had been very busy for Mycroft. A minor crisis on the Balkan needed the British Government's attention so it wouldn’t turn into a major crisis and consequently he had little to no time for things like sleep or food beyond the absolute necessary. And certainly he had no thoughts to waste on romantic entanglements whether they’d be old or new. At least not while he was awake. During the few hours he managed to get some sleep his dreams tended to disagree.

 

*

 

_ “Come on, Myc.” _

 

_ Mycroft watched his boyfriend wearily. “What are we doing here, Oliver?” _

 

_ “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining. We borrowed my uncle’s car, so now we are in the middle of nowhere on a sunny Saturday afternoon with no one watching. I think the answer should be obvious.” Oliver grinned like a giddy schoolboy. _

 

_ Knowing the other boy as well as he did, he could guess pretty well what that was. “Anything we damn well like?” _

 

_ “Exactly, Holmes. Now come on, down that small stream, there’s a little nutshell of a rowing boat.” _

 

_ Mycroft’s eyebrows shot high disappearing under his rather long hair. He would like to get a haircut, but Oliver loved his longer hair and its tendency to curl slightly. And Mycroft loved Oliver, so no haircut it was. _

 

_ “A rowing boat?” _

 

_ “I might not be good enough for competitions, but I’m certainly good enough to row my boyfriend up and down a brook for a while.” _

 

_ Being rowed around sounded far more attractive than the prospect of getting active himself. Mycroft grinned and feigned the mild protest of a wellborn lady. “Oh my giddy aunt, but I forgot my parasol.” _

 

_ Oliver laughed at the exaggeration and high pitched voice. “Well, let’s see if you get freckles.” _

 

*

 

Coming home for the first time in three days, Mycroft desperately wanted a hot shower in his decadent bathroom and some hours of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. What he didn’t want was any kind of conflict with Gregory, any talk about the murders his lover was currently investigating, or anything connected to Oliver really.

 

Mycroft found Gregory in the living room reading an old paperback. It wasn’t one of Greg’s so it was most probably one he borrowed from a friend - a friend who didn’t care too much about the look of things, judging by the way the back of the book was broken and the cover torn in several places. The fancy silver colouring on the letters was almost completely rubbed off, so it was more difficult to read the title and the author - “True Monsters - a Wolfgang Hart novel” and of course “Oliver McIntyre”.

 

“I’d ask since when you have developed a taste for werewolf fiction but I’m afraid I know the answer.”

 

Lestrade looked up. “Yesterday we found two more victims, The forensic team can’t keep up with the amount of new evidence and the bodies keep piling up and I can’t sleep anyway, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to take a look.”

 

Mycroft walked over, sitting down on the couch when Greg moved to make room for him.

 

“This feels more and more like some American TV show than a real life case. Jealous husbands, a son trying to get the inheritance early, that’s real. That’s more or less normal. And the speed of the whole thing...”

 

“You are clearly not only dealing with a madman but one who has spent a whole lot of time preparing. There is no way he could find all these victims on such a short notice.”

 

Greg smiled. Despite the dire situation it was good that Mycroft was here, that no matter what he felt, he had someone at his side, someone he could rely on (as much as the circumstances allowed it that was). Maybe he should confide in Mycroft, get the Holmesian input on this clusterfuck of a case.

 

Mycroft’s mobile rang. He gave Gregory a small apologetic smile and took the call.

 

Lestrade stiffened when he saw Mycroft’s body language change as he took the call. He only heard a soft “Oliver,” as the older Holmes left for his study.


	12. Chapter 12

 

Thursday morning another victim was found. The body of a businessman, obviously drowned, turning up at the banks of the Thames. Molly quickly established that he hadn’t drowned in the dirty river but died from regular tap water in his lungs. The bruises on his chest that were roughly hoof-shaped and sized clearly marked the victim to be the stand-in for the Kelpie victim of book 5. Ahsen Batti had fought his killer and they found several threads of fabric under his fingernails but no skin or anything that might be used for DNA testing. 

 

“Well, now we could really use Mike and some tracking spells.” Donovan really was frustrated.

 

‘Mike’ of course referred to the ancient, highly powerful wizard who lived trapped in a magically camouflaged ivory tower in the middle of Liverpool. The only reason why the intelligent, and capable wizard didn’t solve all the cases was the fact that he was trapped away - due to his own power and choices - inside his tower.

 

“We’re not inside the novels, Donovan.”

 

She looked at him surprised for a moment before she spoke slowly, surprised her boss hadn’t figured it out reading the books she had borrowed him. “No, we’re not, but we DO have a highly intelligent man, who mostly hides away in his office in Marsham Street and who can work the closest thing to magic we have in the real world. “

 

Greg blinked. Damn, the stupid character was even called Mike (and in love with the ruggedly handsome hero Wolfgang) and he hadn’t made the connection until Sally pointed it out.

 

“I mean McIntyre knows him from uni, right? It’s widely known he used friends and acquaintances as role models for his characters.”

 

“We are not dragging Mycroft Holmes into this, Donovan.”

 

There was one slightly less terrible option after all. He really didn’t want to involve Sherlock in this case but the younger Holmes had the uncanny ability to make up for three to four forensic assistants simply by taking a look. And people kept dying. God knew they could use all the help they could get.

 

*

  
  


“Greg, what are you doing here?” John was surprised to meet his friend at Baker Street and worried when he noticed how tired the DI looked.

 

“It’s a long story…”

 

“Lestrade, close the door, the draft will disturb my experiment.”

 

“And hello to you too, Sherlock.” Greg let himself drop into the ‘client’ armchair.

 

“How about I put the kettle on?” John suggested.

 

“Sounds great, thanks.”

 

Sherlock looked up from his experiment and studied Lestrade intensely for a few moments.

 

“So why are you here, Greg?” John hollered from the kitchen.

 

“It’s for a case.” Sherlock snapped before the policeman had a chance to answer. “But it’s also about that idiot brother of mine. How can this be about Mycroft AND a case, Glen?”

 

“Seriously, Sherlock? I just said his name. How can you be that ignorant?” John stood with crossed arms in the passage to the kitchen.

 

“Years of training.” Sherlock didn’t even look at his blogger. “Tell me, Lestrade.”

 

Still unsure if this was a good idea or not, Greg sighed heavily. “Oliver McIntyre.”

 

John raised an eyebrow “The Wolfgang Hart guy?”

 

Greg nodded. 

 

Sherlock just stared at him. “Oliver.”

 

John and Greg both were startled by the venom in Sherlock’s voice.

 

*

 

They were sitting down with John pouring the tea for all of them. “So… Oliver McIntyre?”

 

“Mycroft knows, of course.”

 

“Of course your brother knows, Sherlock.”

 

“Knows _what_ exactly?” John couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something.

 

“Oh just that the guy who’s repeatedly tried to kill my brother is involved.”

 

“He did what?!”

 

“Oh come on Sherlock, I know you have a flair for the dramatic but don’t you think that’s a bit harsh. Not that I’m fond of Mycroft’s ex but…”

 

“Mycroft’s ex? OK - stop it you two this instant. I’m just a simple ex-army doctor here and if you don’t slow down…”

 

“Oliver got Mycroft into smoking, surely that counts as attempted murder nowadays.”

 

“Sherlock!” John had had enough. “Shut up for a moment.” He turned to Greg. “So one of Mycroft’s ex-boyfriends has reappeared and it so happens to be in connection to one of your cases?”

 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what happened.”

 

“Not ‘one of’ - ‘the’, John, ‘the ex-boyfriend.” The doctor shot his best friend a dirty look, but then stopped, startled at the worry in Sherlock’s face. “You should take Mycroft and take a vacation.”

 

“That’s not really practical, Sherlock. We both have jobs and even if we didn’t, I doubt that Mycroft would agree.”

 

The consulting detective jumped up from his seat and started pacing around the room.

 

Lestrade decided to ignore him for the moment. He looked at John. “I really don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of losing him.” He had come for the case. He really had. But faced with the sympathetic ear of a friend, it suddenly blurted out.

 

“Mycroft? Don’t be daft. He worships the ground you walk on, why would he leave you because someone from his past suddenly popped up?”

 

“I am daft - that’s the point, isn’t it? He knows McIntyre from uni. They share a history and probably have a lot more in common. And he’s a good bloke as far as I can tell, decent sort. And Mycroft is acting… different whenever McIntyre is as much as mentioned.”

 

“You’re the best DI Scotland Yard has, you’re hardly ‘daft’ by anyone’s standards but my own.” Sherlock interrupted.

 

“And Mycroft’s.” Lestrade added gloomily.

 

“By Mycroft’s standard everyone is daft - including myself - and _certainly_ McIntyre. And he’s a total bastard.”

 

“What did he do to Mycroft?” John had never seen that kind of hatred in Sherlock, not even when he was talking about Anderson.

 

“He broke his heart.”

 

*

 

_ Mycroft entered the flat he shared with Oliver. Sometimes cultural filters and ignorance were a bliss. No one raised an eyebrow at two young students sharing a flat. They had a second bedroom so guests wouldn’t start asking questions and could enjoy all the advantages of the privacy of their own home otherwise. The semester was nearing its end and Oliver would soon have his degree. He had written several letters of application and Mycroft had no doubt that Oliver would get a good job in London once he got his final grades. He himself was stuck at Oxford for another year but it wouldn’t be difficult to convince everyone that he was simply too antisocial to share his flat with just about anyone and couldn’t find a replacement for Oliver. The second bedroom would officially become his study, his parents could easily afford the rent for the whole place and he and Oliver would be undisturbed on the weekends that his boyfriend could visit. _

 

_ Mycroft subconsciously petted the head of Thomas as the ginger cat rubbed his leg in greeting. Oliver believed that no home was complete without a pet and had brought the bulky tom home from a shelter less than a week after they moved in. Despite his expectations it had taken Mycroft less than two months to get used to the largely self-reliant animal although Thomas acted as if he hated him at least eighty percent of the time. _

 

_ When he found Oliver sitting in the kitchen, he knew something was wrong even before his boyfriend opened with the words “Myc? We need to talk.” _

  
  


_ Of course Oliver was right. The end of university meant a lot of changes, a literal break in the everyday routine. This was the beginning of a new phase in life. And travelling to and from London in addition to a new job, a new flat, establishing a new circle of friends - it simply would be too much. It really was only common sense to break it off now instead of slowly killing what they had through distance and stress. Besides they were young. This was their first relationship. How could they know this is what they wanted for the rest of their life if they had no comparison? _

 

_ Mycroft listened quietly, his face set in stone. There really was no way arguing. Oliver was only being reasonable. What did it matter that Mycroft knew very well what he wanted for the rest of his life? What did it matter that Oliver’s matter-of-fact way of ending their relationship shattered Mycroft’s heart? There was no use in being sentimental. No advantage in fighting the inevitable. _

 

_ “I’m sorry, but I think this is only for the best in the long run, Myc.” Oliver sounded sad and he looked almost heart-broken but at the same time resolute. _

 

_ “Of course, you are absolutely right.” He got up from the kitchen table. “Except - please try to remember my full name, ‘Olli’.” _

 

*

 

John sighed. “Before Greg moved in with him I wasn’t sure if your brother even had one.” 

 

The doctor refrained from commenting on Sherlock’s sudden outburst of brotherly protectiveness. Knowing the two as long as he did, he had long since decided not to get involved in their messed up relation. They clearly cared for each other in their own way and god help anyone who got between them. 

 

“Oh don’t look at me like that, Greg - you know Mycroft would take it as a compliment more than anything.” He went back into the kitchen fetching the kettle. 

 

Pouring tea he restarted the conversation with the DI staring into his cup and the brilliant consulting detective pacing the length of the living room. “Now Sherlock, why don’t you tell us what happened between your brother and McIntyre, so we don’t feel quite as clueless.”

 

Sherlock didn’t stop pacing but started talking.  “Mycroft met McIntyre on his first week on campus and became sillily infatuated. They got together half a year or so later. I wasn’t there so I can only take an educated guess from the phone calls and letters. He told the family on Christmas but it stayed a secret officially of course. Everyone agreed that Oliver was ‘oh so good’ for my dear brother. Making him more social, warmer, more accessible, etc. - as if that was something positive. I was the only one who saw the facts clearly and came to the right conclusions. Usually Mycroft values my take on a problem far more than the combined opinion of the rest of humanity. Not that that’s saying much, mind you. But with Oliver he chose to ignore me completely. And it ended in predictable disaster.”

 

“Go on,” John encouraged.

 

Sherlock looked out of the window. “I was thirteen when McIntyre broke up with him...”

 

*

 

_ Sherlock hated the way Mummy and Father were fussing about Mycroft. His brother was an adult and more importantly had hated being the centre of attention like this as long as he could remember. The hospital had called them when Mycroft had been admitted after fainting in front of his flat and of course his parents had dropped everything to drive up to look after their oldest. _

 

_ “Really, Mummy, I’m fine.” _

 

_ “You collapsed in front of your door, Myc. I’d hardly call that ‘fine’.” _

 

_ “My name is Mycroft, mother, and I can assure you that it was nothing but a slight faint. Once the last exams are over I’ll be fine.” _

 

_ Mummy had been a teacher. She knew that sometimes the stress of exams could even affect the most brilliant students. And she was more than happy to believe her son when he presented her with a convenient explanation. _

 

_ “Well your father and I are still going to talk to the doctors. Sherlock - you wait here with your brother.” _

 

_ As usual the youngest Holmes gave no indication if he even heard his mother. Once they had left he spoke though. _

 

_ “As much as I appreciate the unexpected escape from my institution of ‘learning’ for a day. I think you should stop working out and start eating instead, brother.” _

 

_ Mycroft sank back into his pillows. Of course the brat wasn’t fooled this easily. _

 

_ “Aren’t you worried the doctors will tell Mummy?” _

 

_ “I’m of age - if they do, I’ll get their careers.” _

 

_ Sherlock nodded. “Do they know that though?” _

 

_ “I made sure of that before you arrived, brother-mine. Now what do you want to keep your mouth shut?” _

 

_ That actually hurt. He never ratted out Mycroft. Well, not intentionally. Not if he wasn’t bored. Or wanted to get back at the stupid twat for something… OK so maybe that was deserved. And maybe he could get something out of this besides the unexpected free day. He chewed his lips, contemplating the possibilities. It was obvious to anyone with two brain cells (which meant almost no one but himself) why Mycroft had done what he had done, so he didn’t need to ask. _

 

_ “A new microscope - oh and the promise you stop this nonsense. McIntyre isn’t worth it - never was. And as stupid as he was, he certainly hasn’t left you because you weren’t up to his physical expectations. So stop acting stupid.” _

 

*

 

“It took him months to fully recover from that folly. He should really have known better than thinking some normal relationship would work for someone such as himself.”

 

“Lovely, Sherlock - just lovely.” John glowered at his best friend.

 

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes in confusion, then followed John’s eyes towards DI Lestrade. “Oh - no. Gary is something else. He knows how to deal with my idiot brother. He isn’t under the impression that Mycroft is ‘normal’ like everyone else. He ran into his doom with an open eye.”

 

“Thanks, Sherlock, I guess. Well, Oliver is back and despite your assessment, he really seems nice enough. And one other thing you definitely got wrong. Mycroft didn’t take months to get over it - he never really did.”

 

“Well the solution is simple, isn’t it? You said McIntyre was involved in a case. Pin the murders on him and you’ll have killed two birds with one stone.”

 

“Sherlock!” John looked ready to smack the younger Holmes over the head.

 

“Well I guess that answers my question if you’d be able to help solving the case then.” Greg got up. “Thanks for the tea and the open ear, John, but since Sherlock won’t be the help I hoped for, I need to go. There is a murderer on the loose after all and we have only had 6 out of 13 books so far, so…”

 

“Who said, I wouldn’t be able to help? If you don’t want me to pin it on McIntyre fine - I’ll find the real culprit for you. Anything to get rid of him as quickly as possible. England can’t afford to have my brother break down moping - and I don’t want to deal with all the pesky little consequences, like traffic jams, civil unrest, and worst of all Mummy calling all the time to ask me how the two of us are doing. Now what books are you talking about?”


	13. Chapter 13

When Sally Donovan came to his desk looking as pale as a sheet, Gregory immediately expected the worst. She held out a photo to him.

 

“Porsha Lawrence, she’s been reported missing this morning. She’s eight.”

 

After studying the list McIntyre had worked out for them for days, Lestrade immediately knew what his Sergeant had caught. The dark skinned little girl was the spitting image of the description for Portia the young Pookah girl who was killed gruesomely in “Sweet Little Lies”.

 

“Missing?” He didn’t dare to hope.

 

Donovan nodded. “She disappeared on her way to school. Her friends said she went into the car of a man and they drove off. No force was reported but the parents immediately reported it as a kidnapping.” She paused. “The description her friends gave fits McIntyre. It might still be someone else trying to scapegoat him but…”

 

“We’ve got to bring him in, of course. Get him, Donovan, now!”

 

*

 

Mycroft was going over some extremely boring and extremely important budget files. Somewhere hidden in these columns of numbers was the reason for a certain minister’s erratic behaviour and he would find it. Depending on what he’d find at the bottom of this, he would then either get rid of the woman or have a long and very serious talk with her, resulting in a very loyal ally. So he was quite annoyed when his phone killed his concentration. He looked at his mobile to see a short text.

 

*I’ve been arrested*

 

The text was missing Sherlock’s initials and a quick glance informed him it had been sent by Oliver.

 

*

 

_ Mycroft had naturally done very well on his exams this semester. His scores weren’t perfect - he had spent too much time letting himself be distracted by Oliver instead of studying - but all in all he considered the exchange acceptable. When he’d told McIntyre his assessment, his boyfriend had started laughing good-naturedly and told him him that he was a terrible romantic. The thought of that brought a small smile to his face. Yes - Oliver was good for him, even if Sherlock disagreed. _

 

_ Entering his room Mycroft was slightly taken aback by the sight presenting itself. He had assumed that the smell of flowers came from one or more of the other rooms on this floor. Apparently he’d been wrong. The thought crossed his mind that Oliver had been VERY meticulous about cleaning up any petals, dirt, or other hints that would have indicated this room. His boyfriend had gone to quite some lengths to keep this as much of a surprise as was possible when dealing with a Holmes. That in itself was at least as heartwarming as the picture before him. Add that to the fact that Oliver, despite his generous godfather, was notoriously short on money and still had managed to scrape together a display worth around two hundred pounds sterling by his quick estimate and it became clear that his boyfriend was at least as crazy about him as he was about Oliver. Oh, and the small detail of Oliver McIntyre presenting himself in his full naked glory positioned on Mycroft’s bed between a plethora of different flowers. _

 

_ Mycroft stepped in hastily, closing the door behind him. There had been no one in the hallway besides himself but still. A small scowl formed on his face. They had talked about the need for secrecy quite a few times but it seemed that Oliver forgot those talks when it became convenient. The older boy knew exactly what Mycroft was thinking, judging by the smirk on his face and the way he looked at him through the lashes of his coyly lowered lids. _

 

_ “Oliver…” _

 

_ “Tell me, you  _ don’t  _ like what you see and I promise I’ll get rid of the mess immediately and will never do something like this again.” The dare was clear in his voice. _

 

_ Mycroft’s eyes were inadvertently drawn to the semi erect penis of the adonis on his bed and he swallowed once. “It’s not about what I like or not, Oliver…” He locked the door, turning the key twice. _

 

*

 

The members of the Yard might not have been the brightest people on god’s green earth but they did possess a certain survival instinct. And the people knew or at least guessed what Mycroft Holmes was. So when he entered the Yard wearing _that_ expression on his face, his path was mysteriously free and unobstructed all of sudden.

 

He didn’t exactly burst into Lestrade’s office, but only just so. Seeing Sherlock there, standing next to Gregory and DS Donovan suddenly everything made sense. He stopped, his face turning red.

 

“Sherlock - how could you?” Mycroft turned towards the DI “And you? How could you bring him into this? And then fall for his obvious ploys. You refuse to trust my judgement but then you fall for Sherlock’s petty little revenge games? I have no idea, what he told you. I respected your wish for me to stay out of this, but arresting Oliver on my idiot little brother’s word has to be the stupidest thing you have done in your whole career!”

 

Lestrade turned towards his DS. “Donovan, give us five minutes.” Sally nodded and left quickly. She hated the freak but she was clever enough to fear his brother.

 

“Now listen, Mycroft Holmes because I will only say this once and I don’t intend to shout to get through your thick skull.” Lestrade’s voice was eerily cold. “There’s a young girl missing. A child of eight years. And while NO ONE in this office is totally convinced that it was McIntyre, it sure does look like it from the evidence. Not arresting him under the circumstances would have meant I wasn’t doing my job. Your brother was actually in here to explain to me in detail, how it was impossible for McIntyre to be the real culprit and how I was a fool for falling for the obvious scapegoating and insulting my DS just for good measure. So how about you two geniuses shut the fuck up for a change and listen first, before you accuse everyone around you of being an idiot. I didn’t believe it was McIntyre for a moment. I’m willing to let myself be convinced by evidence but until then it’s STILL Porsha’s best bet to act as if I did believe he did it. If someone is trying so hard to frame him, they would be foolish to kill her as long as McIntyre is locked up because that would prove he was innocent. This MIGHT buy us the time to actually find the girl and save her life.”

 

“Unless she’s already dead,” Sherlock commented.

 

“Yes, Sherlock unless she’s already dead. Although then it still might stop the killer from going further down the list.” He turned toward the older Holmes. “Now normally I would tell you to get the fuck out of my office under the circumstances. But your brother has a plan and that one requires McIntyre’s cooperation. So here’s your chance to do something helpful regarding this case.”

 

*

 

Oliver McIntyre looked up hopefully when the door to his cell opened. His face lit up when he indeed saw the man he had prayed but hadn’t dared hoped for.

 

“Myc.” He practically jumped up from the bed and actually embraced the elder Holmes.

 

The door closed. No matter how pissed Lestrade was right now, he still fundamentally trusted Mycroft Holmes.

 

“It seems you are in quite some trouble, Oliver.” It was clear to anyone with eyes that the author had cried.

 

“There’s a child missing. And they think I kidnapped her. And that I murdered all those people. And while they’re busy interviewing me, someone is doing god knows what to that girl. They should be out there searching for her, before it’s too late. Someone is trying to frame me, Myc - please you have to believe me.”

 

“Oliver, calm down.”

 

“At first I thought DS Donovan was on my side, but DI Lestrade is convinced it was me and he’ll waste all the Yard’s resources to find enough evidence to lock me up. And I think he’s convinced the rest of his team.”

 

“Oliver - Calm. Down.”

 

McIntyre took a deep breath looking at the man before him. Mycroft Holmes always had been a rock in a crisis - the voice of reason. And surely Mycroft believed him. Mycroft simply had to.

 

“Now listen, Oliver, someone is obviously trying to frame you. The police KNOW that. Whatever else you might believe, DI Lestrade is anything but a fool. And he certainly isn’t out to get you.”

 

If it had been anyone but Mycroft, Oliver McIntyre would have asked if they were sure. But with Mycroft Holmes that question seemed preposterous.

 

“Sherlock has a theory how and more importantly why this is done.”

 

“Sherlock? The little brat?”

 

“Sherlock the genius consulting detective as I’m being reminded constantly. Also Sherlock the _giant_ brat.”

 

“You called Sherlock?”

 

“God no, DI Lestrade did. They’ve been working together for years now. Look he went to your home a couple of days ago and did a little ‘creative’ research. How many people have read the script of your next novel?”

 

“What? That… no…”

 

“These murders are clearly the work of a madman and Sherlock thinks, he can draw the man out IF we play to his delusion.”

 

“That’s madness.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “I certainly do agree. But while my brother has difficulties understanding normal human emotions, he has grown pretty apt at predicting the criminally insane. He insisted that we need to find ‘the tower’ before tomorrow because there will be a lunar eclipse.”

 

“If he’s right that would mean, the murderer is someone I know. There’s only a handful of people who know about the plot of “Fragile Realities”, my editor, Mark, two friends I bounce ideas off... I can’t imagine anyone of them being… doing…”

 

“People they might have talked to, people working at your publishers… there are a lot of possibilities, Oliver. Do you believe Sherlock is right about book 14?”

 

“Damn yes. It’s about the only thing that makes any kind of sense. You know it was supposed to be kind of meta, like “Normal Again” in Buffy or Red Dwarf’s “Back to” … You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you Myc?”

 

“Not the slightest. Please stick to the part that is relevant to the murders.”

 

“The book takes place in a different version of reality, Someone goes around recreating key points of the book series, trying to break the spell that altered reality. Alternate-Wolfgang tries to stop him but ultimately fails, resulting in reality as the reader knows it. Only it’s left open whether the person actually recreated reality or altered what could be considered the ‘real’ timeline after a series of novels he liked. The showdown happens inside Mike’s ‘tower’ and Alternate-Wolfgang actually dies - which is of course reset when reality is. It was supposed to be the endpoint of the series, leaving things up in the air for the reader.”

 

“Mike’s tower?”

 

Oliver had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. “Mike is a centuries old wizard, trapped by a curse in his tower and Wolfgang’s best friend - although Mike wants more. It’s a fan favourite ship.”

 

Thanks to living with Greg Lestrade, Mycroft actually got the last bit. He decided it was best to act as if he didn’t though.

 

“So we need to find a tower.”

 

“It’s hidden under an illusion. It looks like an old abandoned office building.”

 

“That might make things more difficult.”

 

“When Sherlock has found the right place. You’ll probably need me. Mike has highly secured doors and only Wolfgang can open the spells.  - Well, I mean there obviously won’t be spells, but some kind of fingerprint lock or something.”

 

“I’m quite sure that there are ways around those, but any trick we use might get the child killed. Sherlock thinks your presence will be helpful and he has the Yard convinced, too.”

 

“I’ll do anything, Myc.”

 

Mycroft nodded as he got up. “Please stay calm. Everyone is doing their best and we’ll get you as soon as we know where we need to go.”

 

*

 

_ “Don’t worry, girl, soon Wolfgang will come and then everything will be over…” _

 

*

 

Mycroft needed to take his leave. He couldn’t afford to just sit around waiting in the Yard, the world moved on. And besides, he trusted Sherlock to find the place in time. That was exactly the legwork, his annoying brother was so terribly good at. Still, he needed to talk to Gregory in private for at least a moment before he left. He owed him that much.

 

“DI Lestrade?”

 

Greg looked up from his conversation with DCI MacKinnon to see the British Government standing in the door. He was surprised that Mycroft was still here, maybe more so than about the way he addressed him.

 

MacKinnon knew who Mycroft Holmes was. He turned to leave. “Make it quick, Lestrade.”

 

Greg just nodded. When they were alone he raised an eyebrow at his lover.

 

“I thought it best not to appear unprofessional in front of your DCI.”

 

Lestrade nodded and leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed, waiting what Mycroft wanted to say.

 

“I’m sorry about my bursting in earlier. I made a fool of myself. I know this doesn’t mean much in itself, but I wanted to at least apologise before I left.”

 

“That’s a start - Look, we’ll talk about the rest later. Once we hopefully managed to catch that psycho with Sherlock’s help. You got McIntyre to cooperate and maybe we’ll even manage to save the girl.”

 

“Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”

 

“I will.”

 

Greg watched the back of the man he loved as he left. Damn they really needed to talk. But right now he had a kidnapped eight year old to worry about.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Getting into his car, Mycroft felt the need to clear his head before returning to his office. There was a lovely little cafe directly across the street from his office. If he got out before the driver entered the garage, he would be able to grab a few pieces of Anthea’s favourite cake in there, to appease his PA when he returned. The woman wasn’t easily bribed but she would certainly appreciate the gesture by a boss who had acted extremely irrational and thoughtless over the last couple of weeks. It would mean facing down the actual public and at least an extra hundred metres he needed to walk, but that was a fact that Anthea would certainly count towards his atonement.

 

The British Government was alone and lost in thoughts contemplating what he would do concerning Gregory Lestrade and Oliver McIntyre in the long run, when a man in his twenties bumped into him with a cup of hot coffee. The man began to apologise immediately and started to use his handkerchief to try and minimise the damage to Mycroft’s suit. He even followed him into the bathroom of the cafe, trying to help. The eagerness was really annoying and the moment Mycroft realised something was actually wrong, he was almost relieved that this was something less mundane than an overly eager, clumsy idiot. His insight didn’t help him to avoid the attack though. The man was young and fit and he was just a tad too slow and arrogant to call for help before it was too late.

*

“Mamma Mia - A”

 

Sherlock looked at his mobile and blinked. He was prowling through London in search for the ‘tower’. The illustrations in those books had been based on a real London site (despite the fact the books took place in Liverpool) and he knew he could find and recognise the place. He did this despite the fact that he would love to see McIntyre rot in a prison cell. He did it as a favour for his stupid, pompous, fool of a brother and the only halfway decent member of Scotland Yard who was in love with said fool. For once he actually had decided to do a nice thing for Mycroft without John or Mummy egging him on to do so. So of course the self-important git had to chose this exact moment to go missing in action. Sherlock was tempted to ignore Anthea’s text on the off chance this was some game his brother played in which he hadn’t included his PA. Then he decided the risk was too great.

 

“When and where? - SH”

 

“App. 25 minutes ago at the Heavenly Brew’s bathroom. Details when available - A”

 

The cafe in front of his workplace? Dammit Mycroft, that’s what employees are for. Unless he went there to get a treat to apologise to said employee. Mycroft was better than this, far too observant to be caught off guard. Unless of course his head was too busy calculating and contemplating other things than his surroundings. He knew that Mycroft could get lost almost as completely in his own thoughts as Sherlock could get in his, so if the murder spree, Oliver resurfacing, and a couple of work problems came together, it was possible he ignored an environment he deemed familiar and therefore safe.

 

“What about Lestrade? Have you told him? - SH”

 

“Your brother’s guideline is to wait at least 60 minutes and present him with anything we’ve found out up until then. - A”

 

Sherlock nodded. It was a wise precaution and he wholeheartedly agreed. Given the average competence level of Mycroft’s minions it was more than likely that after an hour, they would have something more substantial to offer. And Lestrade was very emotional. An additional hour in which he could work without being completely distracted by his worries could prove advantageous as well.

 

He thought about what his best course of action was and decided on continuing his search for the ‘tower’ for now.

*

McIntyre’s mobile lying on Greg’s desk vibrated - an incoming message. Lestrade had asked McIntyre - since they hadn’t gotten a warrant yet - and the author had eagerly agreed to let Scotland Yard look through his messages. So far the only thing remotely interesting had been the volume of texts to and from ‘Myc’. 

 

Mycroft hated to text. 

 

Mycroft hated to be called ‘Myc’

 

Apparently with McIntyre the usual rules didn’t apply.

 

Greg had briefly contemplated giving the phone to someone else because he was too personally involved. But his professional pride kept him from doing so. If Mycroft and Sherlock could separate their emotions from their work, he would be damned if he let his heart hinder his job.

 

He opened the message expecting a text. Instead he was confronted with a photo of Mycroft Holmes, unconscious, bound to a heater.

*

Mycroft Holmes slowly fought his way back to consciousness. His hands were cuffed behind his back. The room was cold and dark - an old abandoned office. His mouth tasted terribly sweet from the chloroform his kidnapper had used to keep him subdued. Well, he was lucky to come to, under the circumstances. Chloroform was a delicate drug and one could easily kill a victim by overdosing if one didn’t know what one was doing. And somehow Mycroft didn’t think his kidnapper knew what exactly he was in for.

 

He didn’t know for how long he had been out exactly, but judging by the indirect sunlight and if this office was indeed facing south as he thought likely by the way the wallpaper had bleached out and how the furniture had been arranged in years gone by, then it should be between one and three hours since he stepped out of his car. This meant that even in the worst case scenario by now people would be looking for him frantically, including at this point very probably his brother, Sherlock’s homeless network, MI6, and one very worried Detective Inspector.

 

Mycroft wasn’t exactly worried. He was more annoyed - at himself, his carelessness, and of course this man who had the fortune of the foolish and actually managed to kidnap him of all people. Now if he wasn’t feeling so nauseous, he might give the kidnapper a piece of his mind once he met him.

*

When the key finally turned in the door, Mycroft was feeling better. He had managed to figure out pretty precisely where he was being held. He didn’t have that much of a view, but being above ground, the little bit he did see, the noises he caught, it was more than enough to tell him where he was within the radius of a block. He wondered where his mobile was and if his people would be able to retrieve it. It was obvious his kidnapper had gotten rid of it by the simple fact that he was still bound to the cold block of metal in his back. It would be a pain in the ass to replace the phone and all the information on it.

 

Once the door opened Mycroft caught the very silent crying of a child. She was on this floor but a few doors down if he had to take a guess. 

 

“Hello.” It was the young man who had spilled his coffee over Mycroft. He was carrying a bottle of water.

 

Mycroft studied the man carefully. A highly intelligent, absolutely delusional person. It was perfectly clear from his clothes over his hair to his mannerism that the man played the starring role in his personal little drama that had little to no connection to reality.

 

“I’m sure you’re thirsty.” He held out the bottle as if he needed to explain anything to his captive.

 

“How nice. First you ruin my suit, then you kidnap me and cuff me to a very uncomfortable heater and leave me alone for hours. But now you remember your manners.”

 

“Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but this is necessary you see. You need to be here when I kill him, to die at his side. But there’s no reason you should die thirsty, Mike.”

 

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed. He wondered if he would get a cup of tea if he asked politely. It somehow seemed likely with the man before him. If his kidnapper hadn’t been such an obvious madman, he might have tried to scare him by letting him know who exactly had fallen into his hands. But seeing as this man was clearly unstable, his best bet would be to simply wait.

 

When the man came close though, bending down with the open bottle to enable Mycroft to drink, something made Mycroft act extremely foolish, one might even say Sherlock-like. It was obvious the man was the murderer on the loose, the kidnapper who now planned to kill Oliver, and he came into Mycroft’s reach.

 

Mycroft seldom had the opportunity to regret he wasn’t more like his younger, foolish, more active brother. But Sherlock probably would have managed to knock the man out. Instead everything went black as the bottle came down on the older Holmes’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh damn the plot is interrupting again :O


	15. Chapter 15

“Anthea!”

 

“Detective Inspector.” Her voice was perfectly calm.

 

“Someone has kidnapped Mycroft!” After calling over Donovan, having her make the necessary calls to get the number from which the picture was sent from the phone company, he had called her immediately.

 

“We are well aware of the fact, Detective Inspector. Has anything come to your attention?”

 

“You knew? Why the hell didn’t you…”

 

He was cut off by her. “We went strictly by the protocols left in place by Mr. Holmes. Now if you have any additional or new information, please share them with us. I’m sending you an email to your work account with everything we know so far right now.”

 

He swallowed once hard. “I’ll have DS Donovan forward the picture to you immediately - but don’t think this is over.”

 

‘Protocols left in place by Mr. Holmes.’ - God, he prayed that they would find Mycroft alive and well but for this he might kill him personally.

 

*

 

_ Mycroft was nineteen and happy. He never thought he would ever say that about himself. Content - maybe. Comfortable - sure. Satisfied - no doubt about it. But happy? Somehow Oliver managed to make Mycroft experience feelings he would have never thought possible. Two years and each and every day things got better and better. They had just moved in together and Mycroft knew that exact moment in time, that morning, lying together in bed, the sun warming his body through the window with Oliver McIntyre’s limbs entangled with his own and their hair tousled from sleep and their waking up activities, that moment right there was perfect. If he had any choice in the matter Mycroft would want this moment to last forever. This right here was his perfect bliss. He guessed he would have made a very poor Doctor Faustus. _

 

_ It was their anniversary and they had both decided to skip classes. _

 

_ Mycroft remembered Mummy’s face when he had let it slip in Sherlock’s presence that he had skipped a course. She had smiled and laughed and said that now she believed in miracles, only to turn towards Sherlock and lecture him about the fact that Mycroft had lived through the eighteen years of his childhood without skipping even one class, and that she would celebrate the same way if Sherlock managed to produce even one year of a spotless record. _

 

_ They spent the day at the theatre, watching a showing of 2001. Oliver loved it and Mycroft could appreciate a good Kubrick movie. Beforehand they went to a restaurant. They got a few looks, two young man their age sharing a meal, but Mycroft had chosen wisely: a restaurant where a lot of young businessman ate their lunch, often in small groups. They couldn’t touch the way they would have liked but the food was excellent. _

 

_ In the evening Oliver started reading to Mycroft, first Byron then his own… _

 

_...then the novel he was currently reading. It was one of those horror novels, he liked so much, one of those pulp things. _

 

_ As Oliver read about the monster in the dark, the unknowable horror, Mycroft began to feel more and more nervous. The air felt heavy, pressing on him, and the light of the candle on the nightstand seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer, giving of less and less light… _

 

_ No. This wasn’t how it happened. The evening had been perfectly romantic. And Oliver’s novels were ridiculous, not frightening. Something wasn’t right. _

 

_ Mycroft turned towards Oliver wanting to protest, wanting to flip the light switch to counter the darkness, but Oliver had disappeared. _

 

_ Mycroft was alone and he could hear the growling and unnatural footsteps falling just outside of the small circle of light that shrank further and further. _

 

 *

 

It took less than three hours for them to find out where Mycroft was being held. Greg knew how damn quick that was. Still it felt like the three longest hours of his life, far worse even than those hours they had all spent searching for Sherlock who had fled the hospital after being shot.

 

Anthea’s call came almost perfectly simultaneously with Sherlock’s text.

 

“I have found ‘the tower’ - SH”

 

And of course it was the same address as the one from where the picture had been sent.

 

Greg’s team joined a group of MI5 agents in front of an old office building in Lambeth. Oliver McIntyre was next to them. Sherlock had insisted that they would need the man to deal with the insane murderer. The man in the suit obviously leading the MI5 people nodded at Lestrade.

 

“Sir. We’ve covered all entrances. We’ve been also told that you will have the last word on this op.”

 

Lestrade was startled for a moment. As was Donovan next to him. This man was obviously above his paygrade. But apparently Anthea trusted him in this, and more so than her own people.

 

“Have there been any movements inside the building?”

 

“Our sharpshooters have spotted something on the eighth floor, but nothing definitive, Sir.”

 

Sharpshooters? Of course there would be. This was concerning Mycroft Holmes.

 

“How many shooters do we have?” If he was going to make decisions, he needed to have all the information.

 

“Three, we couldn’t cover the east side because we’re lacking a high enough neighbouring building. Shall they take the shot when possible?”

 

“No.” The man sounded far too eager in Lestrade’s ears. “Even if you could make absolutely sure you wouldn’t hit anyone else on that floor, like say - Mr. Holmes - that man might be a murderer, he still deserves a trial. We don’t execute people in this country.”

 

The agent just nodded. Maybe Greg was paranoid but he could have sworn the caught a certain amusement in the man’s eyes at his statement about not executing people. He probably carried a double-0 license. Wait - was that even a real thing? He would have to ask Mycroft once he got him back.

 

While DI Lestrade started going over their plans to sweep the building with the team on site. Donovan looked after McIntyre and the freak.

  
  


“Wow, this seems all terribly efficient. I wouldn’t have thought one psychopath would produce this kind of response, even if he has a child in his hands.”

 

Donovan looked frustrated. “They’re not here for the child, or your psychopathic fan, Mr. McIntyre.”

 

Sherlock looked almost bored. John or Mary would have noticed how tense he really was but neither of them were here. “My brother has the annoying tendency to make himself irreplaceable to people.”

 

“That’s for Myc? But he only holds a minor position as a politician.”

 

“If you ever believed that, you are a greater fool than I thought. And his name is My _croft_.”

 

“Sherlock - stop bickering. We have real problems here. And I would very much like to get your brother back in one piece.” Talk about the understatement of the century. “Also if we are really lucky there’s a small, frightened girl alive in there. If we find her, you’re looking after her, Donovan.” She nodded - that certainly wasn’t a job for the freak. “Get her out quickly and safely no matter what else. Sherlock has told you what to expect, Mr. McIntyre?”

 

Oliver nodded. “I’ll do my part.”

 

“Good, I talked with the agents, so everyone knows what they have to do.” He hadn’t talked with Sherlock but that would have been as useful as talking to a herd of cats anyway. He needed to trust that the younger Holmes would be best to decide what he should do in any given situation. Sherlock certainly did. “Let’s go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God the election is still depressing me - I will post another short piece today as well to counteract the depression :/


	16. Chapter 16

 

_ Mycroft was alone in the flat. _

 

_ He shouldn’t be alone. This was their flat - their home. _

 

_ He heard movements from the other room. He called out but got no answer. _

 

_ When he went through the door, he found no one and turning around, he just caught the tail of the cat fleeing the room. _

 

_ Right - the cat. The cat that hated him and now was constantly angry because he was left alone with him. The cat probably blamed him that they were stuck with each other. _

 

_ Why were tears running down his face? He wished he’d remember. He couldn’t shake the feeling it was something important… _

 

*

 

The door to the building indeed was locked with a fingerprint scanner. McIntyre’s right index finger opened it easily.

 

“How did he do that?”

 

“He got access to your unpublished script. Your prints are a lot easier.” Sherlock dismissed Oliver McIntyre’s discomfort.

 

When they opened the door, a voice message was triggered.

 

_ “Well hello, Wolfgang, welcome to your destiny. Please join me in the ninth circle. Oh - and the elevators are not working.” _

 

“Do you know that voice?”

 

Oliver shook his head. “The circles are referring to Dante. I shamelessly used those in book 9.”

 

The ground floor proved harmless, Sherlock quickly strode over to the stairs ignoring the posters of Greek philosophers, scientists, and artists. Greg followed him quickly, not only because he trusted the consulting detective but also because he didn’t want to let the younger Holmes run into danger on his own. Mycroft would kill Greg if his little brother got hurt in an attempt to rescue him. The agents quickly and efficiently secured the floor while Donovan looked after McIntyre.

 

The first floor landing was decorated with some of the most tasteless pornography Greg had ever seen. Sherlock ignored the decoration and wanted to move on, until Lestrade’s hand stopped him.

 

“Wait - what about this floor?”

 

“It’s nine circles, Lestrade. We’ll certainly find my brother on the eighth floor. Although I guess the association here is quite inevitable for you.”

 

McIntyre looked puzzled, while Sherlock rattled on.

 

“The next floor would also be quite fitting but I doubt our culprit knows my brother well enough. Also these people always use the uppermost floor for the showdown. I have no doubt the floors will be decorated with love and care, but I do want to get home rather than spent my evening looking at a psychopath’s idea of interior decoration.”

 

“You have that at home anyway…” Donovan mumbled.

 

When Sherlock pressed on, Lestrade began to follow. Only then McIntyre called out. “Wait - what did the brat mean by... “ His brow furrowed. “Are you ‘Gregory’?”

 

Lestrade really had no time for this. “He actually mentioned me? I thought he was too busy having his head up his arse these last few weeks. Look we can exchange pleasantries later. Yes, I’m ‘Gregory’. Now can we follow Sherlock to get this mess sorted out before it’s too late?”

 

Without waiting for an answer he started climbing again, following Sherlock’s lead in ignoring the decoration on the different floors.

*

 

_ Mycroft was standing next to his brother’s broken and beat up body. It would take some time to find out who exactly had done this to Sherlock, besides the obvious answer - himself. Sherlock was doing his best to throw his life away and destroy the beautiful mind he had been gifted with. _

 

_ The drugs had probably taken a worse toll on Sherlock than any beatings. _

 

_ Mycroft wished that he could help but Sherlock wouldn’t let him. _

 

_ And now everyone was blaming him for Sherlock’s troubles, Mummy, Father, Sherlock, and certainly he himself. _

 

_ He should have been a better big brother.  _

 

_ He should have taught Sherlock better. _

 

_ He should have looked after him better. _

 

_ He was alone and despite his power, he couldn’t help the one person he so desperately wanted to protect. _

 

_ Then he felt a hand fall on his shoulder. It was a warm and gentle hand and he almost felt as if he wasn’t alone anymore. _

 

_ But when he turned to look who the hand belonged to, he couldn’t see anybody... _

 

*

 

After passing slating literary reviews, pictures of all the murder scenes, and a lovely compilation of photos from other authors with their fans to Nigel Farage, they finally reached the eighth floor.

 

Here Sherlock stopped for the first time and carefully studied the door. A welcome opportunity for the others to catch their breath.

 

“Why is there a photo of Mark Norton on the door?”

 

“Treachery - Mark…” Oliver took a deep breath. “Well, he was unfaithful, which is why we broke it off. I wouldn’t exactly say that is on par with Judas or Cain, but apparently the murderer disagrees.”

 

After Sherlock had dismantled a clever little booby trap, the accompanying MI5 agents opened the door.

 

The eighth floor was a nightmare vision-wise. The walls were decorated with mirrors. Plastic sheets were hanging from the ceiling, large and small, thick and thin, and from various transparency levels. As they opened the door they still triggered something and a cacophony of noises started from a dozen or so different speakers. In combination with the stroboscope lightning the effect was extremely disorientating.

 

It was almost impossible to communicate without shouting, but Lestrade positioned himself between the door and Sherlock, gesturing at the agents to take the lead. Their leader nodded and they began securing the area.

 

After they had all entered and secured the hallway up to the first pair of doors, Sherlock rolled his eyes and passed Lestrade. It took him about ten seconds to end the cacophony and stroboscope effect by finding the fusebox for this floor.

 

Still the sheets and mirrors made orientation difficult enough for the time being. They proceeded slowly and carefully.

 

The agents were far from useless and spotted the spring gun contraption in time. If they hadn’t managed to disarm it, the girl behind the third door on the right wouldn’t have survived her rescue.

 

Donovan was at her side in a blink, talking to the girl while one of the agents opened her cuffs. Porsha let herself be swept up and carried out without any protest, burying her crying face in Sally’s shoulder. One of the agents followed them. Donovan wouldn’t be able to defend herself with an arm full of eight year old.

 

_ “Enough games.” _

 

The voice came from a speaker running on its own power apparently.

 

_ “You had your moment of heroics, Wolfgang. But please send your lackeys away now. Otherwise I might be forced to kill your Mike.” _

 

Oliver looked at Lestrade, panic clear in his eyes. Greg looked at Sherlock, who just nodded.

 

“Wolfgang won’t be allowed to come alone,” the consulting detective declared loudly. “There is the rule of three that has to be obeyed.”

 

Greg had no idea what Sherlock was talking about but apparently the killer had heard them and to him it made perfect sense.

 

_ “Of course, Wolfgang, Mike, and one other - brains, brawn, and heart. But the rest needs to go.” _

 

Lestrade already was ordering the agents out. There was a look of disbelief on their leader’s face. But thanks to Anthea’s order, he did follow the DI.

 

Sherlock stared at Lestrade intensely, dismissing McIntyre completely. “You are on your own now, get my brother out of there.”

 

*

 

_ Mycroft was lost, searching through a labyrinth for something he had lost. He wished he could remember what it was. There were flashes of warmth and cologne and silvery hair but nothing clear or definite. The only thing he knew for sure was that his head was killing him. _

 

_ Now if just someone could come and tell him what it was he had lost, show him the way out of this maze… _

 

*

 

The last office on this floor was kind of a disappointment, almost as if the man hadn’t finished decorating. There were several plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling, but the large windows still let in enough light to make the room look almost normal. His experience told Greg that the huge pentagram on the floor wasn’t really painted with blood but only made to look that way - a fact that McIntyre missed if the paleness on his face was any indication. Right under the window cuffs were dangling from an old massive heater. Mycroft was lying at the kidnapper’s feet. His head was covered with dried blood from a blow to the head that happened not all that long ago. Lestrade registered that Mycroft moaned when the man dragged him by the shoulder into the middle of the pentagram. So the British Government was still alive. Greg’s heart started beating again.

 

The man was tall, in his twenties, wearing normal, cheap clothes, dark hair, blue eyes, no one you would look after twice if you passed him on the street. But obviously pretty strong, judging by the way he easily dragged Mycroft’s unconscious form with one hand, while his other hand held a nasty looking scimitar. Greg wondered if he got this from some fantasy online shop and sharpened it, or if it was a historical piece the man had somehow acquired.

 

“Ahh you brought the simple yet loyal Peele. That’s not in the book, but the other one was right - he does belong here. He looked weird, I wonder if he’s one of Titania’s, that would explain how he understands the rules. It is so like you Wolfgang, trying to hide such crucial information, trying to sabotage my efforts. But this has to happen - and you know it.”

 

McIntyre swallowed. “If… if you know I’m Wolfgang you know I can’t let you do this. This world is at least as real as the one you want to create, even more so right now. No world is worth killing the innocent.”

 

The man laughed. “People die all the time and no one is truly innocent - although did you notice? I didn’t kill the child - too much risk sacrificing the virginal lamb. You are so fond of quoting Spock, Wolfgang. You should remember - the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

 

“Only Spock learned better, sometimes the needs of the one…”

 

“How dare you? Don’t try to cover your cowardice as ethics. This IS necessary. The man who loves you will give his life so you can find your true destiny again…”

 

The moment he raised his arm to strike at Mycroft, a shot rang through the room.

 

The man screamed as the bullet went right through his shoulder. In his fixation on “Wolfgang” he had completely forgotten about Lestrade, who had brought himself into position while doing his best to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Now he took two quick steps and knocked the man down, kneeling on him a moment later, cuffing his wrists behind his back.

 

“Call them back, McIntyre, this man needs medical attention.”

 

And then he proceeded to read the man his rights because Greg Lestrade would rather shoot himself in the foot than letting this man escape on a technicality.

 

*

 

His nightmares were plagued by headaches. Only when he slowly came to, he realised that the headaches were real. But a cool soft hand was soothing his pain. And a voice he had almost but not quite heard calling him back to wakefulness softly whispered to him.

 

“Everything is going to be alright, My. We got him, and a doctor is on the way, don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

 

Despite his headache and the slight nausea that implied a mild concussion, he managed to produce a smile. “Gregory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your convenience the 9 Circles are:  
> 1 Limbo (unbaptised people)  
> 2 Lust  
> 3 Gluttony  
> 4 Greed  
> 5 Anger  
> 6 Heresy  
> 7 Violence  
> 8 Fraud  
> 9 Treachery


	17. Chapter 17

Then of course Sherlock barged in, shooting a ton of insults at his brother, Lestrade, and everyone in his general vicinity. Greg did notice the signs of worry in the younger man’s face but didn’t comment on it. Everyone who mattered understood anyway. The group of agents efficiently whisked Mycroft Holmes downstairs towards an ambulance. Greg didn’t mind at all. He was allowed to ride with Mycroft and left all the paperwork for someone else to deal with - at least for today.

 

Later they learned that the man had been one Will O’Keefe. His aunt worked as McIntyre’s cleaning lady which had given the disturbed young man easy access to everything, including a work in progress manuscript lying around on the desk. He was clearly delusional and had been in therapy as a teen. But when he came of age, he ended his therapy and stopped taking the medication, instead fleeing into the delusion that somehow the “Wolfgang Hart” novels were true. Now several people were dead and O’Keefe would spend the rest of his life in an asylum, getting the treatment he so desperately needed.

 

Mycroft needed to spend two days in the hospital for observation. He tried leaving after an hour but Gregory reminded him gently but firmly that he would easily be able to force Mycroft back into bed AND make him stay there - and not in the fun way either. Given the alternative, Mycroft opted for staying in bed voluntarily.

 

On the second day McIntyre visited.

*

“Oliver.”

 

Greg got up. “I’m going to get a coffee.”

 

“Please, Detective Inspector, I didn’t want to interrupt anything.” 

 

“Gregory - please, stay.”

 

Lestrade blinked. Mycroft wasn’t exactly the kind of person who asked for anything. He ordered people to do as he said. And while their home was a different story, usually he acted that way towards him too, when they were in public. It simply didn’t do to let just anyone see that he actually cared for Greg Lestrade. He raised an eyebrow but sat down again.

 

“If you’re both sure.” He shrugged.

 

“I just wanted to see if you’re alright, Myc...roft,” he corrected himself. “And to say thank you to both of you.” He turned to face Greg. “I owe you an apology, Detective Inspector. I thought you were out to get me, but I should have believed Mycroft when he told me that I could trust you and your competence. Although he never once mentioned that you were actually more than just a work acquaintance.”

 

“Yeah, he can be a prick as a boyfriend. I’m sure you know that.”

 

McIntyre grinned. “Well I don’t remember him that way but it’s been almost thirty years. Nostalgia often discolours our memories in a rosy tint. I tend to forget all the bad stuff about my exes after a while.”

 

Mycroft shook his head “You tend to not see the bad things about people in the first place. So how could you remember?”

 

“So I guess your government job isn’t as minor as you tried to make me believe?”

 

“Maybe not,” Mycroft conceded. “But you can’t believe Sherlock’s propaganda either.”

 

“And if you’re trying for a more precise answer, good luck. He won’t even tell me specifics and we’re sharing a home.” Greg’s hand gently squeezed Mycroft’s, making sure that he wouldn’t take the words as a critique.

 

“Are you alright, Mycroft? I mean you are here because of me and I feel terrible. Not that I wouldn’t care if this wasn’t related to me but…”

 

“I’m perfectly fine, it’s just a mild concussion. I would have walked out of here if someone hadn’t threatened me with bodily harm.”

 

Oliver looked at Greg with a smile. “He can be stubborn, I remember that.”

 

“Oh that wasn’t me - the physical harm part - that was his PA. I just threatened to bring Violet into it.”

 

“Between that and Sherlock coming by, looking at me and telling me, I wasn’t allowed to ever make a comment again if he got himself into trouble, I had a wonderful time as you might have guessed.”

 

They talked for a while until McIntyre had to leave. He would soon leave London but he promised to call when he visited next.

 

“Now Myc, be good and look after that boyfriend of yours. There are not many knights in shining armour out there who would go after the dragon to save you,” He shook Lestrade’s hand as well. “Good luck with that one, Detective Inspector, but I think you can handle him.”

*

Once McIntyre had left Mycroft studied Lestrade with a very serious expression. After the last couple of weeks he had thought about this long and hard. Oliver resurfacing had made him face some things he’d kept buried for decades. He had taken a look at the things he used to have and what he had now with Gregory, and he’d finally come to a conclusion. “I don’t want you to be my boyfriend anymore.”

 

Greg took in a sharp breath. But he had known Mycroft Holmes for long enough not to jump to conclusions. “That statement could be considered in a very disadvantageous way. I hope you will clarify what you mean.”

 

“We’re both close to fifty, I don’t think the term is appropriate. Equally the word ‘lover’ lays way too much emphasis on the physical aspect of our relationship.”

 

Greg relaxed. “Okay…” He waited where Mycroft was going with this.

 

“And you’re not simply my ‘partner’ - I can have a tennis partner, or a partner in crime.”

 

“So what term were you thinking of, that would satisfy you?” He couldn’t help it, by now he was quite amused.

 

“I was thinking of ‘husband’.”

 

Greg’s expression softened. “Mycroft Holmes, did you just propose to me?”

 

A small smile showed on the British Government’s lips. “I believe I did.”

 

When Gregory didn’t answer and just studied him, Mycroft became slightly nervous. “So? What do you say?”

 

“That depends, My. I’m still trying to figure out how much of that question is actually you trying to manipulate me into forgetting all about the last couple of weeks.” Lestrade very carefully watched his lover’s reaction to those words.

 

Mycroft for the tiniest fraction of a moment actually looked hurt. Then he lowered his gaze and sighed. “I’d say I’m appalled by the implication but given my general record with emotional conflict, especially over the last weeks, it’s probably a well deserved concern. For the record though - none of it.”

 

Greg leaned back, still keeping a very watchful eye on the man in the hospital bed. “Carry on…”

 

“Seeing Oliver again after all these years has been - unsettling. Thank you by the way for giving me the room I needed - for proposing that I’d meet with him.” Mycroft’s gaze drifted out of the window. “When Oliver broke up with me, I didn’t have the emotional equipment to deal with the experience. I had never cared for anyone who wasn’t immediate family, for someone who left. I didn’t deal well. Or more precisely, I didn’t deal at all. I went into a short period of self-destructive behaviour no one but Sherlock really noticed. When he told me to stop acting like a fool, I did. I did the one thing my brother claimed I should never have stopped doing in the first place, shutting myself in.”

 

“You took emotional advice from Sherlock?”

 

“In many regards my brother is far more in harmony with his ‘feelings’ than I ever was. Still listening to a spiteful teenager might not have been the most brilliant idea I have ever had. Unlike Sherlock I never managed to delete any experience from my memory but I did my best to lock them away in my mind, avoiding any reminder of what I had.”

 

A few things suddenly made more sense in Lestrade’s mind. “Like being called ‘Myc’?”

 

“I never used to mind - before the breakup.” Mycroft confirmed. “Like I told you, I was deeply and madly in love back then. And I never looked back to observe those memories more critically.”

 

“But now you did?”

 

“It became unavoidable. It took me some time to sort through everything to come to the obligatory conclusion. I know these last weeks can not have been easy for you and that’s entirely my fault.”

 

Although the fact that there had been a murderer on the loose definitely had added to Lestrade’s stress levels, he really didn’t feel the need to contradict Mycroft right now.

 

“Looking back I feel like a complete fool. In hindsight the outcome should have been obvious. From an adult point of view, all those things I remembered as romantic now mostly seem careless or horny or naive. Even if I could start over with Oliver right at the highpoint of our relationship and continue from there, I wouldn’t want to. Sometime in the last thirty years I have grown up. What we have, that’s - for a lack of better word - ‘real’. You know me, the real me with all my faults. You don’t have any romantic delusions and yet you care. You trust me. And I fundamentally trust you.”

 

Greg’s raised eyebrow was enough to make Mycroft blush a little.

 

“I know I might have not always acted like that - over the last couple of days especially. I wasn’t acting rationally and I hurt you and for that I am deeply, deeply sorry. I assure you that I will do anything to make it up to you.” He lowered his gaze, pausing for a moment. “When I came to my senses in that building I never once thought of Oliver, I thought of you. I knew you’d be coming for me - you, Sherlock, and the combined forces of hell that Anthea would unleash.” This actually resulted in a small smile on Greg’s face. “Oliver is a friend from my past, maybe the only one who earned that title which does make him special. But yours was the face I woke up to, the one I want to wake up to. Oliver is my past, you are my present - and hopefully my future.”

 

“And it only took you a couple of weeks of deep soul searching and a minor concussion to figure it out.” Greg’s voice was halfway between amused teasing and deep relief. Obviously Mycroft had thought long and hard and now had settled the issues to the point where he could actually verbalise what had been going on in that mind of his.

 

“I will leave a note with my PA that you have the official permission to have me kidnapped and knocked some sense into me the next time I start acting like a complete fool.”

 

“The next time?”

 

“I’m sure I will find a new way of making an ass of myself eventually.”

 

Greg snorted. Before long he would have some choice words with Mycroft regarding ‘protocols’ but that was a discussion for another day. Right now the tension of the last weeks finally left him and he felt a wave of relief washing over him. His eyes were traitorously moist when he spoke. “You know the part about me being your future, that was actually a halfway decent attempt at a romantic proposal.”

 

“It was?”

 

Gregory nodded. “And the answer is ‘yes’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all. I'll be offline for the weekend and wouldn't have wanted to leave you dangling in the air. This has been a very gratifying experience and I love everyone to bits who read, commented, bookmarked, or left a kudos.
> 
> I'll be seeing you guys soon with some shorter bits <3
> 
> EDIT: There's an Outtake for this (Sherlock in the hospital) in "Snippets & Outtakes"


End file.
